- ._ 

"TV?1 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 

AND  OTHER  VERSES 

BY 

FR.  FINCH 

WITH     PRELIMINARY    WORD    BY 

ANDREW  D.   WHITE 

AND  A   PORTRAIT  OP 
THE  AUTHOR 


NEW   YORK 

HENRY    HOLT   AND    COMPANY 
1909 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 

AND  OTHER  VERSES 

BY 

FRANCIS    M.  FINCH 

WITH     PRELIMINARY    WORD     BY 

ANDREW  D.   WHITE 

AND  A   PORTRAIT  OF 

THE  AUTHOR 


NEW   YORK 
HENRY   HOLT   AND    COMPANY 

1909 


COPYRIGHT,  IQOQ, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


Published,  February,  IQOQ 


THE   QUINN    &   BODEN    CO.    PRESS 
RAHWAY,    N.    J. 


PRELIMINARY   WORD 

Soxs  of  Yale  who  recall  the  middle  years  of  the 
nineteenth  century  have,  among  their  most  vivid  re 
membrances,  the  personality  and  influence  of  Francis 
Miles  Finch.  A  thoughtful  scholar  in  the  class-room, 
a  prizeman  in  the  essay  competitions,  an  influential 
editor  of  the  Yale  "  Lit"  an  impressive  speaker  in  the 
Linonian,  hail-fellow-well-met  on  the  campus,  sedate, 
impulsive,  big-hearted,  wise,  witty,  everywhere  he  was 
the  ideal  collegian. 

But  to  the  student  mind  his  strongest  appeal  was 
made  through  his  college  songs.  Many  men  of  that 
time  wrote  verses,  but  the  characteristic  of  Finch's 
songs  was  that  they  "  got  themselves  sung":  from 
that  day  to  this  they  have  held  their  own,  expressing 
student  sentiment  not  only  under  the  elms  of  Yale, 
but  in  college  towns  throughout  the  land. 

Having  been  graduated  in  1849,  he  returned  to  the 
little  town  of  Ithaca,  where  he  was  born,  in  the  heart 

iii 


iv  PRELIMINARY  WORD 

of  the  lake  region  of  Western  New  York, — became 
a  lawyer,  and  speedily  distinguished  himself  in  his 
profession.  Noted  also  he  soon  became  as  a  speaker 
in  the  political  campaigns  which  preceded  and  fol 
lowed  the  Civil  War.  He  seemed  to  have  none  of 
the  ordinary  ambitions:  he  did  his  duty  thoroughly 
wherever  it  wras,  but  his  heart  was  among  his  books 
and  in  his  garden  at  his  pleasant  home,  with  its  vistas 
over  the  rocky  torrent  in  the  foreground  and  Cayuga 
Lake  with  its  hilly  shores  beyond. 

Even  in  his  early  manhood  he  attracted  attention 
by  the  clearness  and  strength  of  his  legal  arguments, 
and  one  of  these,  in  the  case  of  Ruloff  vs.  The  People, 
won  him  wide  recognition. 

But  while  his  heart  rejoiced  in  his  library  and  among 
his  trees,  it  went  forth  in  sympathy  with  all  good  and 
great  things  said  and  done  in  his  time.  A  striking 
evidence  of  this  is  found  in  his  poem  "  The  Blue  and 
the  Gray."  First  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
then  caught  up,  North  and  South,  and  read  over  the 
graves  of  Unionists  and  Confederates  with  equal  fer 
vor,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  all  the  orations 
and  sermons  and  appeals  for  the  restoration  of  kindly 


PRELIMINARY  WORD  V 

feeling  between  the  two  sections  have  been  far  ex 
ceeded  in  real  effect  upon  the  national  heart  by  this 
simple  poem. 

From  his  most  cherished  pursuits  he  was  especially 
drawn  for  a  time  by  the  founding  of  Cornell  Univer 
sity,  of  which  he  became  one  of  the  first  trustees.  In 
this  capacity,  his  legal  advice  proved  invaluable.  His 
heart  was  in  the  work.  Between  him  and  Ezra  Cor 
nell  there  had  grown  up  a  warm  friendship,  and  at 
this  period  it  bore  most  noble  fruit. 

In  the  complicated  and  trying  questions  which  then 
arose  on  all  sides  of  the  new  institution,  his  legal 
knowledge  and  logical  acuteness,  mingled  with  strong 
common  sense,  were  precious.  One  secret  of  his  force 
lay  in  his  enthusiasm.  His  indignation  at  the  attacks 
upon  Mr.  Cornell  by  the  enemies  of  the  university 
aroused  him  to  fight  strenuously  and  successfully  in 
the  courts,  in  the  press,  and  in  public  meetings,  while 
the  music  of  the  university  chime,  heard  at  dawn, 
noon,  and  nightfall  above  the  ripple  or  roar  of  the 
adjacent  waters,  inspired  him  to  write  songs  which 
have  been  sung  by  Cornell  students  from  their  first 
arrival — forty  years  ago — until  the  present  hour. 


PREFACE 

SOME  words  of  explanation,  if  not  due  to  the  readers 
of  this  volume,  are  at  least  due  to  its  Author.  He 
is  not  trying  to  win  for  himself  a  place  among  the 
Poets  of  the  world.  If  he  had  that  ambition  he  would 
at  least  admit  it  to  be  hopeless.  To  deserve  that  rank 
one  must  give  up  his  whole  life  to  the  effort,  and  make 
it  his  dominant  work  and  occupation ;  although  there 
are  exceptional  cases  more  remarkable  because  excep 
tional.  But  it  will  be  obvious,  both  from  the  dates 
and  character  of  the  verses,  that  they  have  been  only 
incidents  along  the  line  of  a  busy  and  laborious  life 
devoted  to  a  profession  which  in  the  main  evinces  a 
contemptuous  dislike  for  poetry,  and  regards  a  taste 
for  it  as  a  weakness.  There  is  no  room  for  imagina 
tion  in  the  arguments  of  the  Bar  or  the  opinions  of  the 
Bench.  And  so  these  verses  must  not  claim  for  them 
selves  more  than  belongs  to  them,  or  be  measured  by 
a  standard  which  they  do  not  challenge.  Seme  of 


X  PREFACE 

them  have  already  made  trial  of  the  popular  favor  with 
results  which  have  surprised  nobody  so  much  as  the 
Author.  He  hopes  for  the  rest  as  kindly  a  reception, 
and  only  wishes  that  they  better  deserved  it. 

And  so,  heeding  the  advice  of  friends  for  whose 
literary  reputation  and  judgment  he  has  a  profound 
respect,  the  Author  has  decided,  in  the  autumn  of  his 
life,  to  make  an  authoritative  collection  of  his  shorter 
poems,  and  launch  them  upon  that  sea  of  publication 
which  wrecks  much  more  than  it  saves.  He  will  not 
resent  criticism,  for  it  will  probably  be  deserved;  nor 
be  disappointed  at  neglect,  for  this  is  a  workaday  world ; 
and  to  those  who  may  sneer  at  a  lawyer  writing  poetry 
he  will  only  answer  that  he  is  not  the  first  who  has 
done  so,  and  that  much  of  the  law  of  the  ancient  world 
was  preserved  and  handed  down  in  verse. 

Since  many  of  the  events  referred  to  go  back  to 
almost  half  a  century,  there  have  been  added  a  few 
notes  for  the  information  of  the  young  and  to  refresh 
the  memories  of  the  old. 

With  these  few  words  this  book  of  verses  must 
be  left  to  the  fate  that  awaits  it. 

FRANCIS  M.  FINCH. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY I 

TAGHKANIC 4 

SMOKING  SONG           .                6 

THE  ORIOLE 9 

AN  ARGUMENT u 

NATHAN  HALE I3 

Two  LAKES  OF  THE  WILDERNESS     ....  16 

STRAY  THOUGHTS jg 

AURORA  BAY 20 

COMING,  BOYS  ! 24 

ALICE 28 

INAUGURAL  ODE 3o 

EZRA  CORNELL 32 

THE  PEARL-DIVER 34 

THF  FOUR  COLUMNS 


37 

Six  YEARS  OLD 33 

THANKS 


40 

MY  LITTLE  SOLDIER 4I 

THE  CHIMES       .  44 

THE  MISER 47 

STORM, — THE  KING 5I 

"FORBID  THEM  NOT" 55 

xi 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead: — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  Day: — 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet: — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  Day: — 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 


3LUE   AND  THE    GRAY 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours, 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers, 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe: — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  Judgment  Day: — 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So,  with  an  equal  splendor 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 

On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all: — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  Day: — 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue; 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 


So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain, 

With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain:- 


THE    BLUE    AND   THE    GRAY  3 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  Judgment  Day: — 

Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
The  generous  deed  was  done. 
In  the  storms  of  the  years  that  are  fading 
No  braver  battle  was  won: — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  Day: — 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 
Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red : 
They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead! 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  Day: — 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue; 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 


TAGHKANIC 

On  the  brow  of  the  delicate  streamlet, 
In  the  folds  of  its  forest  hair, 

I  see  the  gems  of  a  bridal, 
The  pearls  of  a  peerless  pair. 

The  rill  of  the  shadowy  woodland 
Runs  to  the  lake  with  a  spring: 

The  Indian  maid,  Taghkanic, 
Weds  the  Cayuga  King. 

In  the  shade  of  the  murmuring  maple 

Wait,  fair  girl,  at  my  side, 
Till  I  lift  your  wondering  lashes 

On  the  dainty  lace  of  the  bride. 

Nearer,  your  tremulous  footsteps, 
Yonder,  the  flash  of  your  eye, 

Through  the  break  of  the  marginal  leaflets, 
Where  the  mist  sails  up  to  the  sky. 
4 


TAGHKANIC 

You  see  it. — I  know  by  the  color 

That  tells  me  its  rose-red  tale: 
You  see  in  the  frame  of  the  forest 

The  lace  of  the  bridal  veil, 

Over  the  rock  it  is  floating. 

Is  it  woven  of  diamonds  or  spray? 
Of  molten  pearl,  or  of  star-dust? — 

Tell  me  the  fabric,  I  pray. 

You  answer  me  only  with  dimples 

Hid  in  a  tinting  of  rose: 
And  the  light  of  your  own  near  bridal 

Under  your  eyelid  glows. 

The  Indian  maid,  Taghkanic, 

Weds  with  the  Sapphire  King: 
But  a  dearer  and  daintier  bridal 

The  bloomings  of  June  shall  bring. 

i860. 


SMOKING  SONG 

Floating  away,  like  the  fountain's  spray, 

Or  plume  of  a  royal  maiden, 
The  smoke  wreaths  rise  to  the  blue  of  the  skies 
With  blissful  fragrance  laden. 

Then  smoke  away,  till  a  golden  ray 
Lights  up  the  dawn  of  the  morrow, 
For  a  cheerful  cigar  is  shield  and  bar 
To  the  blows  of  Care  and  Sorrow. 

The  leaf  glows  bright  as  gems  alight 

That  burn  in  the  braids  of  Beauty, 
And  nerves  each  heart  for  a  hero's  part 
On  the  battle-plain  of  Duty. 

Then  smoke  away  till  the  roses  play 

In  the  white  of  the  dawning  morrow, 
For  a  cheerful  cigar  leaves  wound  nor  scar 
From  the  warded  stroke  of  Sorrow. 
6 


SMOKING    SONG 

In  the  thoughtful  gloom  of  his  fireless  room 

Sits  the  child  of  song  and  story, 
But  his  heart  is  warm  with  his  pipe's  red  charm, 
And  his  dreams  are  all  of  Glory. 

Then  smoke  away  till  the  ashen  gray 

Blushes  out  of  the  dawning  morrow, 
For  a  cheerful  cigar  is  a  hopeful  star 
In  the  sky  of  clouds  and  Sorrow. 

By  the  blazing  fire  sits  the  wrinkled  sire 

With  loyal  faces  round  him, 
And  he  smiles  on  all  in  the  quaint  old  hall 
As  the  curling  wreaths  surround  him. 
Then  smoke  away  till  the  faded  day 

Grows  young  in  the  dawning  morrow, 
For  a  cheerful  cigar  will  win  in  the  war 
Of  Age  with  the  host  of  Sorrow. 

In  the  forests  grand  of  our  olden  land, 

When  the  savage  conflict  ended, 
The  Pipe  of  Peace  with  its  fragrant  fleece 

Marked  a  home  and  hearth  defended. 


SMOKING    SONG 

Then  smoke  away  till  the  finished  fray 
Of  the  dusk  with  the  conquering  morrow, 

For  a  cheerful  cigar  drives  foes  afar, 
And  splinters  the  spear  of  Sorrow. 

The  dark-eyed  train  of  the  maids  of  Spain 

In  the  summer  dance  trip  lightly, 
And  a  dainty  cigar,  like  the  point  of  a  star, 
In  the  clasp  of  their  lips  burns  brightly. 
Then  smoke  away  till  the  damsel  gay 

Wakes  up  to  the  songs  of  the  morrow7, 
For  a  cheerful  cigar  not  a  dream  will  mar 
Save  those  of  Doubt  and  Sorrow. 

Floating  away,  like  the  moon's  pale  ray, 

Or  bridal  veil  of  a  maiden, 
The  smoke  wreaths  rise  to  the  blue  of  the  skies 
With  peace  and  pleasure  laden. 

Then  smoke  away  till  a  golden  ray 

Burns  red  in  the  bowl  of  the  morrow, 
For  a  cheerful  cigar  is  shield  and  bar 
To  the  blows  of  Care  and  Sorrow. 

1848. 


THE  ORIOLE 

Among  my  meadow  stars  and  plumes, 
Among  the  rosy  morns  of  June, 

With  glint  of  gold  and  flash  of  flame, 
A  summer  bird  in  beaut)'  came, 
With  whirr  of  wing  and  trill  of  tune, 
That  shook  the  garden  bells  and  blooms 
And  woke  to  life  the  breezy  knoll ; — 
A  yellow-throated  Oriole. 

Among  my  mingled  deeds  and  dreams, 
Among  my  swift  and  busy  days, 
With  parted  lip  and  tangled  curl, 
Flits  in  and  out  my  baby  girl, 
The  darling  of  my  daily  praise: 
And  so  the  gold  and  crimson  gleams 
On  tress  and  cheek, — the  little  soul 
I  call  in  play,  my  Oriole. 
9 


10  THE   ORIOLE 

A  queenly  day  came  down  the  hill 
With  fringe  of  frost  and  icy  gems, 
And  robes  alight  with  frozen  dew, 
And  far  the  birds  of  summer  flew; 
Then  capped  with  crystal  diadems 
My  shining  oaks  grew  lone  and  still, 
And  bleak  and  sad  the  chilly  knoll 
When  fled  afar  the  Oriole. 

Alas! — and  must  a  day  of  gloom 
Come  slowly  down  the  frozen  hill, 
With  heart  of  ice  and  hand  of  snow, 
And  upward  bid  my  darling  go? 
Dear  Lord,  let  mercy  melt  the  chill, 
The  rosy  bud  blush  into  bloom, 

And  keep  the  charm  of  leaf  and  soul ; 
The  summer  and, — my  Oriole! 

1870. 


AN  ARGUMENT 

The  Good  grow  better ;  the  Bad  grow  worse : — 
That  is  the  lesson  of  Heaven  and  Hell. 

Our  life,  prolonged,  is  a  boon  or  a  curse, 
As  we  live  its  period,  ill,  or  well. 

Who  gives,  loves  giving  with  each  new  gift: 
And  Truth  goes  on  from  the  seed  to  the  bloom: 

And  Faith  draws  wider  the  blue  cloud-rift 
For  the  glow  that  goldens  the  dusk  of  the  tomb. 

But  closer  the  hands  of  Avarice  shut; 

And  Falsehood  swarms  till  the  branches  teem  ; 
And  the  hermit  soul  of  an  Arctic  hut 

Sees  never  a  summer  haze  or  gleam. 

Unchanged,  we  pass  by  the  harbor  light; 

Unchanged,  drift  out  on  the  silent  sea; 
And  find  ourselves ! — as  the  dawn  grows  bright, 

Ourselves!  and  the  same! — as  the  shadows  flee, 
ii 


12  AN   ARGUMENT 

I  catch  the  glint  of  your  doubt,  my  friend, 
As  we  lie  by  the  lulling  drone  of  the  Lake : — 

That  the  sins  of  the  body  are  slain  at  the  end, 
And  the  Soul  to  a  purer  life  is  awake. 

But  you  pour  the  molten  iron  in  sand : 
It  cools  and  hardens  as  life  growls  old. 

Does  it  melt  anew  when  you  loosen  the  band, 
Or  change  because  you  have  broken  the  mold  ? 

We  fall  just  where  in  our  lives  we  stood. 

As  here,  so  there,  we  are  glad  or  sad. 
And  these  grow  happy  because  grow  good, 

And  those  get  sorrow  because  grow  bad. 

This  is  the  Heaven  our  reveries  give, 

And  this  is  the  Hell  that  our  fears  descry, 

That  the  Good  are  forever  permitted  to  live, 
And  the  Bad  are  forever  forbidden  to  die. 

1868. 


NATHAN  HALE 

To  drum-beat  and  heart-beat 

A  soldier  marches  by: 
There  is  color  in  his  cheek, 

There  is  courage  in  his  eye: 
Yet  to  drum-beat  and  heart-beat, 

In  a  moment  he  must  die. 

By  star-light  and  moon-light 
He  seeks  the  Briton's  camp ; 

He  hears  the  rustling  flag, 
And  the  armed  sentry's  tramp  ; 

And  the  star-light  and  moon-light 
His  silent  wanderings  lamp. 

With  slo\v  tread  and  still  tread 
He  scans  the  tented  line; 

And  he  counts  the  battery  guns 
By  the  gaunt  and  shadowy  pine, 

And  his  slow  tread  and  still  tread 
Gives  no  warning  sign. 
13 


14  NATHAN    HALE 

The  dark  wave,  the  plumed  wave, — 
It  meets  his  eager  glance, 

And  it  sparkles  'neath  the  stars, 
Like  the  glimmer  of  a  lance: 

A  dark  wave,  a  plumed  wave 
On  an  emerald  expanse. 

A  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 
And  terror  in  the  sound! — 

For  the  sentry,  falcon-eyed, 
In  the  camp  a  spy  hath  found ! 

With  a  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 
The  patriot  is  bound ! 

With  calm  brow,  steady  brow, 

He  listens  to  his  doom. 
In  his  look  there  is  no  fear, 

Nor  a  shadow-trace  of  gloom, 
But  with  calm  brow,  and  steady  brow, 

He  robes  him  for  the  tomb; 

In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  kneels  upon  the  sod, 
And  the  brutal  guards  withhold 


NATHAN    HALE  15 

E'en  the  solemn  word  of  God! — 
In  the  long  night,  the  still  night 
He  walks  where  Christ  hath  trod. 

'Neath  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn 

He  dies  upon  the  tree! 
And  he  mourns  that  he  can  lose 

But  one  life  for  Liberty: — 
And  in  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

His  spirit-wings  are  free. 

But  his  last  words,  his  message  words 

They  burn,  lest  friendly  eye 
Should  read  how  proud  and  calm 

A  patriot  could  die, 
With  his  last  words,  his  dying  words 

A  soldier's  battle-cry! 

From  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf, 

From  monument  and  urn, 
The  sad  of  Earth,  the  glad  of  Heaven 

His  tragic  fate  shall  learn, 
And  on  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf 

The  name  of  Hale  shall  burn ! 


TWO  LAKES  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Between  two  lakes  of  the  Wilderness 

Are  lustrous  lilies  afloat 
That  rock  to  the  lulling  ripple 

Of  the  breeze,  or  the  passing  boat. 

Between  these  lakes  of  the  Wilderness 

Dark  waters  of  amber  pour, 
But  their  gloom  is  illumined  with  crimson 

By  the  roses  that  line  the  shore. 

Strange  in  the  heart  of  the  Wilderness, 
And  the  shade  of  its  grand  repose, 

This  death-like  white  of  the  lily, 
This  love-like  red  of  the  rose! 

Between  two  lakes  of  the  Wilderness — 
The  Future  and  shadowy  Past, — 

In  ripple  or  statelier  flowing, 
Our  current  of  life  runs  fast. 
16 


TWO    LAKES   OF   THE    WILDERNESS  17 

Between  these  lakes  of  the  Wilderness 

In  pale,  white  beauty  gleam 
The  upturned  faces  of  children, 

Dead — on  the  sorrowful  stream. 

Between  these  lakes  of  our  Wilderness 
All  darkly  the  currents  would  move, 

But  for  the  glow  on  their  fringes 
Of  the  roses  of  Heavenly  Love. 

And  we  go  thro:  the  lakes  of  our  Wilderness, — 

The  moments  but  dips  of  the  oar, 
With  the  lilies  of  Death  on  the  water, 

But  the  roses  of  Love  on  the  shore. 

1868. 


STRAY  THOUGHTS 

O !  a  warm  glance,  a  sunny  glance, 

A  warm  glance  of  love,  boys, 
When  lips  blush,  and  eyes  dance, 

And  stars  shine  above,  boys. 
When  the  heart  burns,  the  cheek  burns, 

And  dark  tresses  hide,  boys, 
The  rose  tint,  the  lily  tint 

Of  mingled  fear  and  pride,  boys! 

O!  a  kind  word,  a  gentle  word, 

A  kind  word  of  love,  boys, 
From  fair  lips  at  eve  heard, 

Like  murmur  of  a  dove,  boys; 
When  hearts  beat  a  swift  beat, 

And  dark  lashes  fall,  boys, 
And  soft  smiles,  sunny  smiles 

Tremble  over  all,  boys ! 
18 


STRAY    THOUGHTS  19 

O,  a  rose  blush,  a  timid  blush, 

A  blossom  of  the  peach,  boys, 
A  bright  glow,  a  warm  flush, 

The  heart's  silent  speech,  boys  ; 
When  day  folds  her  white  wing, 

And  stars  run  astray,  boys, 
When  hearts  glow,  and  cheeks  glow, 

And  doubt  has  flown  away,  boys! 

O!  a  bright  smile,  a  loving  smile, 

A  bright  smile  of  truth,  boys, 
A  sun-flash,  a  pleasant  wile 

To  snare  the  heart  of  youth,  boys! — 
The  bright  smile,  the  warm  glance, 

The  blush  red  as  wine,  boys, 
The  kind  word  at  eve  heard, — 

Are  they  not  divine,  boys  ? 

1848. 


AURORA  BAY 

Lowly  cottage  and  villa  grand 

Crown  the  curve  of  the  crescent  land; 

Marble  and  roses  adorn  the  shore. 

Why  do  I  love  the  waters  more  ? 
Drifting,  drifting — ever  astray 
In  the  summer  haze  of  Aurora  Bay. 

Green  are  the  graceful  hills,  I  know, 
And  white  the  turbulent  cascade's  flow; 
But  never  for  me  can  fade  or  fail 
The  green  of  the  deep,  the  white  of  the  sail, 
As  idly  drifting — drifting  away, 
I  dream  in  the  haze  of  Aurora  Bay. 

And  so  in  all  the  glide  of  my  life 
Others  have  won  in  the  toil  and  strife. 
For  me  no  planet  of  fortune  gleams, 
And  life  is  lost  in  the  glamor  of  dreams; 
20 


AURORA   BAY  21 

And  drifting — drifting — day  by  day 
I  sing  in  the  haze  of  Aurora  Bay. 

Into  the  brown  old  barge,  the  grain 

Drips  to  the  tune  of  an  April  rain ; 
Pattering  into  the  oaken  hold 
To  change  its  amber  berries  to  gold : 

But  drifting  far  from  Wealth  away 

My  gold  is  the  haze  of  Aurora  Bay. 

Sliding  along  in  its  liquid  grooves, 

Plashing  its  shadows  the  Steamer  moves, 
Throbbing  the  sturdy  song  as  it  goes, 
All  that  is  noble  is  won  by  blows, 

But  drifting  far;  from  toil  astray 

I  rest  in  the  haze  of  Aurora  Bay. 

Yonder  I  see  on  its  circling  lawn, 
The  home  where  Genius  worked  in  the  dawn. 
Perhaps, — I  seem  to  hear  in  the  air, — 
What  one  has  done  another  may  dare : 
But  then  I  drift  from  the  hope  away, 
Content  with  the  haze  of  Aurora  Bay. 


22  AURORA   BAY 

One  that  I  met  on  a  festival  night 
Flecks  the  vale  with  her  robes  of  white ; 
Gathers  a  bud  from  a  red  rose  tree: — 
Ah,  if  she  gathered  that  rose  for  me ! 
But  alas!  I  drift  from  love  astray 
In  the  languid  haze  of  Aurora  Bay. 

Clouds  are  blurring  the  light  in  the  West : 
Marches  the  storm  with  lance  in  rest: 
Gallant  the  boat  and  tough  the  sail 
That  meets  and  baffles  the  wild  lake's  gale ! 
But  still  I  drift  while  the  lightnings  play 
In  the  fading  haze  of  Aurora  Bay. 

Soon, — I  hope  when  the  leaves  are  brown,— 
My  boat  and  I  will  both  go  down. 

Only  a  broken  spar  on  the  wave ! 

Only  a  ripple  to  mark  a  grave! 
Yet  drifting  on  to  the  end  of  day 
I  cling  to  the  haze  of  Aurora  Bay. 

Earnest  labor  alone  succeeds : 

And  only  won  by  the  might  of  deeds 


AURORA   BAY  23 

Are  blush  of  gold  and  the  blooms  of  Fame, 
The  living  grace  and  the  deathless  name, 

But  the  dreamers  dream  their  lives  away 

Each  on  his  own  Aurora  Bay! 


COMING,  BOYS! 

Hurry,  Phil  Sheridan! 

Ride!     Fly! 
Race  with  the  wind, 

Out-gallop  the  river 
To  the  columns  thinned 

And  the  lines  in  a  shiver ! 
Ride!  for  the  gleam  of  your  fortunate  star 
Will  blaze  new  hope  o'er  the  valley  afar: 
Ride!     'Tis  a  rout  of  cannon  and  car 
Like  the  drift  in  a  storm  of  cordage  and  spar: 
Ride!  or  the  glory  just  born  of  the  war 
Will  bleed  with  the  bullet,  or  blush  with  a  scar 

Sheridan,  ride! 
With  blood  on  the  spur, 
And  blood  in  the  air, 

Ride!  ride! 

With  your  helmless  hair. 
24 


COMING,  BOYS!  25 

Coming  is  Sheridan, 

Hot,  wild  !— 
A  speck  on  the  hill, 

A  shadow  far-flying, 
Incarnated  Will, 

Disaster  defying! 

Coming!  where  threatens  the  cataract's  roar, 
And  crossing  his  gallop  the  wild  waves  pour: 
Coming!  while  blows  of  the  lightning  tore 
The  oak  behind  and  the  pine  before: 
Coming!  though  fiends  from  the  fiery  shore 
Brigade  in  his  path  the  furies  of  yore! 

Sheridan  comes! 
With  blood  on  the  spur, 
And  death  in  the  air, 

Comes!  comes! 
With  rage  in  his  hair. 

Hurry,  O  Sheridan! 

Ride!     Fly! 
Rowel  the  steed 

Till  the  wild  hoofs  rattle : 
Yonder  they  bleed 

In  the  storm  of  the  battle. 


26  COMING,    BOYS! 

Ride!  or  your  flags  in  the  valley  will  fall 
Torn  with  the  bayonet,  riddled  with  ball : 
Ride !  or  the  ranks  that  have  answered  your  call 
Will  famish  and  die  in  bondage  and  thrall: 
Ride!  or  the  smoke  will  wind  in  its  pall 
Gun,  cannon  and  flag;  hope,  glory  and  all. 

Sheridan,  ride! 
With  blood  on  the  spur, 

And  flame  in  the  air, 
Ride!    Ride! 

With  your  streaming  hair. 

Coming  is  Sheridan! 

Halt!— Form! 
His  steed  in  a  foam, 

At  the  front  he  is  riding, 
The  master  at  home 

All  the  battle  is  guiding. 
Halt! — and  the  fear  and  the  terror  are  dead, 
And  they  harden  to  heroes  who  hopelessly  fled: 
Form !  and  the  front  of  the  battle  is  spread 
Where  the  blood  of  the  moaning  morn  was  shed: 
Charge!  and  the  foemen  have  bitterly  bled 
And  the  sun  that  was  clouded  sets  splendid  and  red. 


COMING,  BOYS!  27 

Sheridan,  charge! 
With  blood  on  the  spur, 
And  lead  in  the  air, 
Charge !    Charge ! 
'Tis  a  banner,  your  hair. 

Glory  for  Sheridan! 

Name !    Fame ! 
Bays  for  his  brow 

And  stars  for  his  shoulder: 
Never  \ve  bo\v 

To  warrior  bolder! 
Fame !  for  the  army  he  galloped  to  save 
From  the  bar  of  the  prison,  the  mold  of  the  grave: 
Fame!  for  the  Nation  whose  banners  he  gave 
New  flashes  of  freedom  from  mountain  to  wave: 
Fame!  for  the  lesson  the  proud  worlds  crave 
That  "  the  land  of  the  free  "  is  "  home  of  the  brave.' 

Sheridan,  ride! 
With  gold  on  the  spur, 
And  fame  in  the  air, 

Ride!    Ride! 
We  laurel  your  hair ! 


ALICE 

We  do  not  know  a  Princess  when  we  see  her : 

And — what  Grand  Duchess  did  you  say  was  dead  ? — 
How  great  the  ransom  set  on  captive  head 

By  Death  the  Brigand  ?    Could  not  diamonds  free  her  ? 

But  Alice! — Ah!  we  knew  the  wife  and  mother. 
Her  fair,  sweet  picture  lights  our  simple  homes, 
Where  forest  glooms,  or  mountain  river  foams, 

Or  plumes  of  corn  the  prairie  blossoms  smother. 

She  loved  her  children  and  the  common  people. 

The  pearls  we  saw  were  charitable  deeds. 

For  those  we  dress  our  Continent  in  weeds, 
And  toll  the  sobbing  bell  in  rustic  steeple. 

A  child  obedient:  pure  and  modest  maiden: 
Gentle  and  timid  in  white  robes  of  bride : 
Then  patient  nurse  far,  fevered  brow  beside, 

And  wise  sweet  wife  with  cares  of  loving  laden. 

28 


ALICE  29 

O,  yes! — We  all  knew  her.     In  memory  bowers 
Of  Mother-land,  she  was  our  foreign  rose, 
For  her  remembrance  into  tear-drops  flows 

As,  sad,  we  frame  her  face  in  New  World  flowers. 


INAUGURAL  ODE 

(Air:    "Canadian    Boat    Song") 

One  comes: — one  goes: — all  hail! — adieu! — 
If  darkens  the  evening,  the  morn  shines  new! 
Soon  as  one  star  glides  down  the  night 
Up-riseth  another  with  lamp  as  bright! 
Yale!  brothers,  Yale!  rose-red  or  pale, 
The  light  never  fades  from  the  skies  of  Yale. 

One  comes: — as  comes  the  August  morn 
That  ripens  and  flosses  the  waiting  corn. 
So  may  his  summer  of  heart  and  brain 
Fast  ripen  the  seed  into  golden  grain. 
Yale!  brothers,  Yale!  rose-red  or  pale, 
The  light  never  fades  from  the  skies  of  Yale. 

One  goes. — God  bless  him! — Toil  and  time 
He  gave  thro'  the  years  with  a  faith  sublime. 
30 


INAUGURAL    ODE  31 

He  takes  from  these  familiar  realms 

More  thanks  than  the  leaves  of  the  sorrowing  elms. 
Yale!  brothers,  Yale!  rose-red  or  pale, 
The  light  never  fades  from  the  skies  of  Yale. 

\Vho  comes ;  who  goes ;  in  sun ;  in  shade ; 

On  guard  in  her  resolute  lines  arrayed, 

Let  all  be  armed  when  battle  booms 

And  garland  our  Mother  with  victor-blooms! 
Yale!  brothers,  Yale!    In  calm  or  gale 
Thy  banner  be  over  us,  dear  old  Yale! 


EZRA  CORNELL 

The  "  chimes  "  are  still.     Alone, 
As  falls  the  year's  last  leaf, 

The  great  Bell's  monotone 

Slow  hymns  our  helpless  grief. 

From  Slander's  driving  sleet, 
And  Envy's  pitiless  rain, 

At  rest,  the  aching  feet! 
At  rest,  the  weary  brain! 

So  calm,  and  grave,  and  still, 
Men  thought  his  silence,  pride; 

Nor  guessed  the  truth  until 
Death  told  it  as  he  died. 

"  True  "  as  the  steel  to  star: 
With  eye  whose  lifted  lid 

Let  in  all  truth  though  far 
In  storm  and  darkness  hid. 
32 


EZRA    CORNELL  33 

"  Firm  "  as  the  oak's  tough  grain, 

Yet  pliant  to  the  prayer 
Of  Poverty  or  Pain, 

As  leaf  to  troubled  air. 

Untaught:  and  yet  he  drew 

Best  learning  out  of  life ; 
More  than  the  Scholars  knew 

With  all  their  toil  and  strife. 

The  spires  that  crown  the  hill 

To  plainest  Labor  free, 
Where  all  may  learn  who  will, 

His  monument  shall  be! 

Brave,  kindly  heart,  adieu ! 

But  with  us  live  alway 
The  patient  face  we  knew, 

And  this  Memorial  Day! 

1874- 


THE  PEARL-DIVER 

They  dive  for  pearls  in  the  Southern  seas, 

And  carry  a  knife  for  the  throat  of  the  shark, 

And  peril  the  sail  in  the  perilous  breeze 

To  bring  the  gem  from  its  cell  in  the  dark: — 
Unlock  the  captive  shut  in  the  dark. 

Down  by  the  rock  and  the  tangled  weeds, 
Where  the  gold  and  silver  fins  are  afloat, 

With  a  prayer  and  a  plunge  the  diver  speeds, 
While  his  comrades  wait  in  the  silent  boat: — 
Faces  are  pale  in  the  silent  boat! 

The  moments  are  hours  to  those  who  tell 

Their  halting  flight  by  throbs  of  the  heart, 
For  a  stain  of  blood,  or  gleam  of  a  shell 

They  watch  till  the  waters  are  torn  apart: — 
Thank  God,  that  the  waters  are  torn  apart! 
34 


THE    PEARL-DIVER  35 

Are  cut  by  a  swift  and  vigorous  blow, 
As  the  swimmer  comes  to  the  coveted  air, 

And  brings  from  the  dangerous  deeps  below 
Jewels  that  only  a  Queen  may  wear : — 
Only  the  Queen  of  your  heart  may  wear! 

A  Northern  swimmer  dove  for  a  pearl 
In  a  Southern  sea  wave-stained  with  blood. 

No  trace  of  his  plunge  but  billows  in  whirl: 
Not  even  a  flag  shone  over  the  flood : — 
Blackest  of  clouds  shut  down  on  the  flood! 

Rifle  and  bayonet,  bullet  and  shell 

Went  with  him  deep  in  the  clamorous  tide, 

For  the  shark  of  the  Gulf  he  knew  full  well 
Athwart  his  perilous  wake  would  glide: — 
To  a  sure  death-blow  would  darkly  glide! 

Full  forty  miles  the  width  of  his  track 
Yet  never  a  bubble  for  hope  to  glean, 

Till,  flung  on  the  wave,  ball-riddled  and  black, 
The  floating  hat  of  a  trooper  was  seen : — 
No  more  of  the  swimmer  was  heard  or  seen ! 


36  THE    PEARL-DIVER 

Silent  we  stood  in  the  boat  of  the  State, 
Waiting  the  story  of  death  or  of  life  ; 

Waiting  the  sun  or  the  shadow  of  fate, 

And  the  doubtful  end  of  the  unseen  strife : — 
Destiny  hung  on  the  unseen  strife ! 

At  last,  at  last,  the  waters  were  torn, 
The  dripping  flags  came  up  to  the  air; 

Never  a  spear  of  its  pennon  was  shorn  ; 
Never  a  leader's  saddle  was  bare: — 

Thank  God !  no  column  or  saddle  was  bare ! 

Up  from  the  depths  the  diver  brought 

The  pearl  that  had  fallen  in  billows  of  blood  ; 

Long  gloomily  lost  and  patiently  sought, 

Our  drowning  pearl  in  the  covetous  flood : — 
The  UNION  ! — saved  from  the  fire  and  flood ! 


THE  FOUR  COLUMNS 

What  are  these, — cold  and  white 
In  the  wan  and  shivering  light 

Of  the  icy  moon, — 
Fronting  the  fallen  walls 
Where  stood  the  Capitol  halls 

Last  golden  June? 
What  are  they?    What  their  story ? 

O,  moan  of  the  ebbing  waves ! 
They  are  ghosts  of  departed  Glory 
On  march  to  their  open  graves ! 


37 


SIX  YEARS  OLD 

A  little  squirrel  running  for  nuts, 

With  mischievous  jump  and  fur  of  blond, 

Who  finds  the  sweet  that  the  acorn  shuts, 
Or  berry  beneath  the  cool  fern  frond,— 
That  is  the  baby — my  daughter! 

A  little  bird  just  out  of  the  nest, 
Trying  the  flutter  of  tenderest  wings, 

Doubting  if  bug  or  cherry  is  best, 

And  mocking  the  note  the  old  bird  sings, — 
That  is  the  mimic — my  daughter. 

A  violet  born  of  the  summer  rain 

And  parting  its  lips  to  the  kisses  of  June, 
With  golden  petals  like  gold  of  the  grain 
And  a  knowing  nod  at  the  rivulet's  tune, — 
That  is  the  blossom — my  daughter. 
33 


SIX   YEARS  OLD  39 

A  little  soul  in  a  world  of  wo, 

Waiting  the  lift  of  the  curtained  years, 

Launching  a  boat  for  the  river  below, 
Hoping  for  pleasure,  certain  of  tears, — 
That  is  the  darling — my  daughter. 


THANKS 

You  made  this  festal  morning  dear, 

And  pulses  grow  to  organ-swells. 
O,  hard  to  wait  the  silent  year 

That  thanks  might  blend  with  Christmas  bells. 

Like  song  unheard  of  planet  zone 
A  memory  tunes  this  hallowed  time, 

And  weaves  its  faithful  monotone 

With  flying  word  and  flitting  chime. 

It  brightens  hope ;  it  tempers  grief ; 

Its  perfumes  from  the  blossoms  pour; 
It  haunts  the  very  oaken  leaf 

That  autumn  rustles  at  my  door. 

O,  near  to  you  the  tones  that  cheer, 
And  far  from  you  the  sorrow  knells! 

And  yours  as  wanes  each  happy  year 

The  thanks  that  blend  with  Christmas  bells. 
40 


MY  LITTLE  SOLDIER 

1873 

I  hear  the  bugles  adown  the  street, 

And  hoof  of  horse  and  rattle  of  drum, 
And  rhythmic  fall  of  marching  feet, 
And  know  the  men  and  maidens  come 
To  stripe  with  flag  and  star  with  flowers 
The  Soldier  graves, — 
O !  faithful  graves 
Of  those  who  gave  the  Flag  its  flowers! 

I  see  them  climb  the  shadowy  hill, 
And  trace  the  bayonet  flashes  far, 
By  marble  shaft  and  drip  of  the  rill. 
Grief  goes  in  track  of  the  ended  war. 

And  now  they  drape  with  flag  and  flowers 
The  Soldier  graves, — 
O !  numerous  graves 
Of  those  who  gave  the  Flag  its  flowers. 
41 


42  MY    LITTLE    SOLDIER 

They  pass,  as  twilight  glooms  to  dark, 

A  shaft,  like  young  oak's  vigorous  grace; 
A  name  cut  deep  in  the  marble  bark: — 
My  little  soldier's  resting  place. 

All  bare,  all  blank  of  flag  and  flowers: — 
My  Soldier's  grave; 
O !  lonely  grave ! 
No  garlands  here  of  flag  and  flowers. 

Down  in  my  dreams  I  hear  anew 

The  marching  beat  of  his  boyish  drum, 
The  stately  trumpet  charge  he  blew, 
And  sound  of  feet  that — never  come! 
And  here  I  wait  the  evening  hours 
By  little  grave, 
Boy-soldier's  grave, 
Undraped  with  flag,  unstarred  with  flowers. 


He  fought  no  battle  of  manly  life: 

He  won  no  height  with  laboring  breath : 

He  bore  no  scars  of  the  world's  hot  strife: 
He  died — a  child — but  conquered — Death. 


MY    LITTLE    SOLDIER  43 

So  worthy  flag  and  worthy  flowers, 

My  Soldier's  grave, 

O,  sacred  grave! 
Who  brings  thee  woven  flag  and  flowers? 

The  bugle  notes  are  dying  afar, 

And  one  by  one  the  flags  drop  down : 
As  lights  her  lamp  the  evening  star, 
I  weave  memorial  wreath  and  crown 

I  lay  them  here:  this  flag, — these  flowers, — 
On  Soldier's  grave, 
My  Soldier's  grave : — 
This  flag,  half-mast:  this  moan  of  flowers! 


THE  CHIMES 

To  the  busy  morning  light, 
To  the  slumbers  of  the  night, 
To  the  labor  and  the  lessons  of  the  hour, 
With  a  ringing  rhythmic  tone 
Over  lake  and  valley  blown 

Call  the  voices,  watching,  waking,  in  the  Tower. 
Cling,  clang,  cling,  the  bells  are  ringing: 
Hope  and  help  their  chiming  tells: 
Through  the  Cascadilla  dell, 
'Neath  the  arches  of  Cornell, 
Float  the  melody  and  music  of  the  bells. 

By  the  water's  foam  and  fall, 

By  the  chasm  castle  wall, 
By  the  laurel  bank  and  glen  of  dreaming  flower, 

Where  the  groves  are  dark  and  grand, 

Where  the  pines  in  column  stand, 
Come  the  voices,  mellow  voices,  of  the  Tower. 
44 


THE    CHIMES  45 

Cling,  clang,  cling,  the  bells  are  ringing: 
Hope  and  help  their  chiming  tells: 
Through  the  Cascadilla  dell, 
'Neath  the  arches  of  Cornell, 
Float  the  welcome  and  the  warning  of  the  bells. 

When  the  gentle  hand  that  gave 
Lies  beneath  the  marbled  grave, 
And  the  daisies  weep  with  drippings  of  the  shower, 
O,  believe  us,  brothers  dear, 
In  the  shadows  we  shall  hear 
Guiding  voices  of  our  angel  in  the  Tower. 
Cling,  clang,  cling,  the  bells  are  ringing: 
Hope  and  help  their  chiming  tells: 
Through  the  Cascadilla  dell, 
'Neath  the  arches  of  Cornell, 
Go  the  tolling  and  the  moaning  of  the  bells. 

Not  afraid  to  dare  and  do, 

Let  us  arm  ourselves  anew 
With  the  truth  that  gives  the  weakest  blow  its  power ; 

And  arrayed  in  every  fight 

On  the  battle  side  of  Right 
Gather  glory  for  our  angel  in  the  Tower. 


46  THE    CHIMES 

Cling,  clang,  cling,  the  bells  are  ringing; 

Hope  and  help  their  chiming  tells: 
Through  the  Cascadilla  dell, 
'Neath  the  arches  of  Cornell, 

Go  the  glory  and  the  gladness  of  the  bells. 


THE  MISER 

Clink— clink ! 

There's  a  ray  of  light  thro'  the  window  chink 
That  comes  to  play  with  my  gold,  I  think. 

I  must  bar  it  out  to-morrow! 
I'll  have  no  sun-rays  counting  my  store! 
They  come  from  a  world  that  is  hungry  for  more, 
That  spies  for  my  coffers,  and  envies  me  sore: — 

That  I  know  to  my  sorrow ! 

Clink— clink! 

The  parson's  eyes  would  glisten  and  blink, 
Could  he  fatten  his  glance  on  my  gold,  I  think. 

I  hate  their  pitiful  praying! 
Why  do  they  whine  of  thorns  and  the  rod, 
And  the  Jew-lined  path  that  their  Saviour  trod? 
Gold, — pure  gold, — is  the  only  God 
That  is  really  worth  obeying! 
47 


48  THE   MISER 

Clink— clink! 

How  the  golden  Eagles  glow  on  the  brink 
Of  the  yellow  pyramid,  built,  I  think, 

From  the  spoils  of  every  People! 
Say  I  frame  me  a  church  of  my  own,  the  while. 
Moidore  and  sovereign  will  pave  me  the  aisle, 
Doubloons  and  ducats  the  gay  roof  tile, 

And  crowns  run  up  for  a  steeple! 

Clink — clink! 

Across  the  way,  but  a  chain  and  a  link, 
A  spider  hides  in  his  web,  I  think, — 

A  leopard-sleek  attorney! 
He  would  cut  men's  throats  serenely  and  cold, 
If  their  artery  blood  ran  molten  gold ! 
He  is  traveling  on  to  his  Master's  fold. — 

Good  speed  to  his  sulphurous  journey! 

Clink— clink! 

A  beggar-girl  stood  on  the  parapet  brink 
Of  the  lonely  bridge. — Quite  crazy,  I  think! 
And  gazed  on  the  moaning  water. 


THE    MISER  49 

She  asked  for  a  farthing:  I  gave  her  a  curse. 
She  plunged : — and  the  city  provided  a  hearse ! 
No  matter. — It  might  have  been  terribly  worse! 
'Twas  only  a  poor  man's  daughter ! 

Clink— clink! 

A  delicate  eyelid  flashed  me  a  wink, 
Yesterday; — close  by  the  Park,  I  think; 

What  widow  was  it,  I  wonder ! 
Why  smile  upon  me,  grim,  ugly  and  old? 
If  the  fork  of  the  lightning  was  woven  of  gold 
They'd  lasso  each  flash  with  a  veil's  white  fold, 

Despite  the  growl  of  the  thunder! 

Clink— clink! 

They  call  my  tenement  block  a  sink 
Of  crime  and  poverty. — Scold,  I  think, 

These  slimy  hypocrite  teachers! 
I  only  know  if  the  rental  is  paid, 
Nor  care  who  starves ; — old  mother,  or  maid ; 
Who  batters  with  club,  or  stabs  with  blade! 

That  I  leave  to  the  Preachers ! 


50  THE   MISER 

Clink— clink! 

My  beautiful  gold,  thy  gleams  I  drink, 
The  only  wine  that  is  sweet,  I  think: 

Outshining  stars  of  even! 
I  love  thee  better  than  sun-brown  hair, 
Better  than  sick  men  June's  warm  air, 
Better  than  angels  the  penitent's  prayer, 

Better, — aye,  better  than  Heaven! 


STORM —THE  KING 

I  am  Storm, — the  King! 
I  live  in  a  fortress  of  fire  and  cloud. 
You  may  hear  my  batteries,  sharp  and  loud, 

In  the  summer  night 
When  I  and  my  lieges  arm  for  the  fight, 

And  the  birches  moan, 

And  the  cedars  groan 
As  they  bend  beneath  the  terrible  spring 

Of  Storm, — the  King! 

I  am  Storm, — the  King! 

My  troops  are  the  winds,  and  the  hail  and  the  rain  ; 
My  foes  the  lakes  and  the  leaves,  and  the  grain, 

The  mail-clad  oak 
That  gnarls  his  front  to  my  charge  and  stroke, 

The  ships  on  the  sea, 

The  blooms  on  the  lea, 
And  they  writhe  and  break  as  the  war-guns  ring 

Of  Storm, — the  King! 


52  STORM, THE   KING 

I  am  Storm, — the  King! 
My  Marshals  are  four: — the  swart  Simoon, 
Sirocco,  Tornado,  and  swift  Typhoon. 

My  realm  is  the  world, 
Wherever  a  sail  is  spread  or  furled. 

My  wide  command 

Sweeps  sea  and  land, 
And  doomed  and  dead  who  insult  fling 

At  Storm, — the  King! 

I  am  Storm, — the  King! 
I  drove  the  sea  o'er  the  Leyden  dikes, 
And  fighting  by  side  of  the  burgher  pikes 

To  the  walls  I  bore 
The  "  Ark  of  Delft  "  from  the  ocean  shore, 

O'er  vale  and  mead 

With  pitiless  speed 
Till  the  Spaniard  fled  from  the  deluge  ring 

Of  Storm, — the  King! 

I  am  Storm, — the  King! 
I  saw  an  Armada  set  sail  from  Spain 
To  redden  with  blood  a  maiden's  reign. 


STORM, THE   KING  53 

I  met  the  host 
With  blow  in  the  face  on  the  island  coast, 

And  tore  proud  deck 

To  splinters  and  wreck: 
And  the  Saxon  poets  the  praises  sing 

Of  Storm, — the  King! 

I  am  Storm, — the  King! 
They  built  a  tower  of  iron  and  stone, 
And  crowned  its  top  with  a  flashing  zone, 

And  laughed  to  scorn 
The  battle  call  of  my  bugle  horn! 

I  buried  it  deep 

In  the  sands  asleep, 
Where  the  surges  rock,  and  the  billows  swing 

Of  Storm, — the  King! 

I  am  Storm, — the  King! 
They  hire  the  heralds  of  lightning  now 
To  warn  that  I  march  from  the  mountain's  brow. 

The  cowards  hide 
In  the  guarded  bay,  or  the  haven  wide: 


54  STORM, — THE   KING 

But  I  toss  them  there 
In  the  sultry  air 

Till  they  seem  but  stones  from  the  deadly  sling 
Of  Storm, — the  King! 

I  am  Storm, — the  King! 
I  scour  the  earth,  the  sea,  and  the  air, 
And  drag  the  writhing  trees  by  the  hair, 

And  chase  for  game 
The  desert  dust,  and  the  prairie  flame, 

The  mountain  snow, 

And  the  Arctic  floe; 
And  never  is  folded  plume  or  wing 

Of  Storm, — the  King! 


"  FORBID  THEM  NOT  ' 

The   children    are   God's    rosebuds; 

And  He,  I  know, 
Transplants  one  here  and  there 

That  it  may  grow 
In  richer  soil  and  sweeter  air. 

The  children   are  God's  snow-flakes; 

Whose  tender  white 
He  sometimes  melts  away 

In  rain  of  night 
Or  warmer  lift  of  shining  day. 

The  children  are  God's  rubies: 

Why  wonder  we 
That  for  some  diadem 

We  can  not  see 

His  loving  hand  should   gather  them? 
55 


56  "FORBID   THEM   NOT" 

And  that  is  why  they  leave  us. 

O,  mother  tears 
That  fall  on  little  graves! 

Dispel  your  fears: 
He  does  not  waste: — He  saves! 


SONG  OF  THE  ENGINE 

With  a  clang! 
With  a  clank  and  a  clang! 
With  clamor,  a  clank  and  a  clang! 
WTith  clatter  and  clamor,  a  clank  and  a  clang! 
With  veins  full  of  fire 

And  the  artery  steam 
Roused  to  the  pulse 

Of  a  feverous  dream, 
With  a  gray  plume  trailing 

Fleecy  and  pale 
Like  mist-boats  sailing 

To  sea  with  the  gale! 
With  the  ring  and  the  rattle 

Of  lever  and  wheel 
And  the  blow  and  the  battle 

Of  track  and  of  steel ! 
With  a  tremulous  spring 
Like  the  launch  of  a  wing 
57 


58  SONG   OF   THE    ENGINE 

From  the  condor's  cliff  where  the  wild  vines  cling :- 

An  eagle  of  iron  with  sinews  of  steel 

And  blow  of  a  pinion  like  avalanche  peal, 

With  talons  of  flame  and  a  blaze  in  the  blood 

I  tunnel  the  mountain  and  compass  the  flood  ; 

I  startle  the  morning  and  shiver  the  noon 

And  splinter  the  radiant  rays  of  the  moon! 

From  pine  and  from  granite  to  orange  and  palm, 

From  storms  of  sleet  fury  to  zephyrs  of  balm, 

From  Alleghan  summit  to  Michigan  wave, 

From  the  life  of  the  East  to  the  pioneer's  grave ;- 

Dragging  a  train 
As  a  flying  prisoner  drags  his  chain, 

Climbing  the  grade, 

Panting  and  sullen  but  undismayed! — 
Then  away  to  the  prairie  with  antelope  speed, 
Belting  the  forest  and  skimming  the  mead, 
Awaking  the  bear  from  his  underwood  lair 
And  startling  the  deer  to  a  leap  in  the  air; 
Breaking  the  Indian's  solitude  rest, 
Pushing  the  buffalo  far  to  the  west, 
Skirting  the  current  with  spur  and  with  thong 
Where  the  drain  of  a  continent  thunders  along, 


SONG   OF    THE    ENGINE  59 

Mixing  and  mingling 

The  races  of  men, 
Bearing  the  Now 

In  advance  of  the  Then! — 
Then  ceasing  the  rattle 

Of  lever  and  wheel, 
And  parting  the  battle 

Of  track  and  steel, 
And  ending  at  last 

The  roll  and  the  race, 
And  checking  the  flight 

With  gradual  pace. 

With  clatter  and  clamor,  a  clank  and  a  clang! 
With  clamor,  a  clank  and  a  clang! 
With  a  clank  and  a  clang! 

With  a  clang! 


BY  THE  LEFT  FLANK 

A  shiver  chills  the  Capital, 
And  through  the  State 

Is  coldly  flying: 

And  Hope  shot  down  with  rifle  ball 
On  breast  of  Fate 

Is  dying,— dying! 

But  drowning  fear  and  stilling  moan, 
Rings  out  one  cool  and  confident  tone, — 
By  the  left  flank,  march ! 

Flag  and  gun  and  drummer: 
We'll  fight  it  out  on  this  line 
If  it  takes  the  whole  of  summer! 

A  blinded  blow  in  wilderness, 
And  line  and  rank 

Are  scarred  and  bleeding: 
And  Longstreet's  craft  and  steadiness 
His  victor  flank 

Is  leading, — leading! 

But  through  the  columns  torn  and  blurred, 
Is  flung  the  one  determined  word, — 
60 


BY  THE   LEFT    FLANK  6l 

By  the  left  flank,  march ! 

Flag  and  gun  and  drummer: 
We'll  fight  the  foe  on  this  line 

Through  all  the  bloody  summer ! 

A  charge  at  front  of  stern  redoubt 
Where  sleet  of  fire 

Is  enfilading! 

Can  Hancock  smoke  the  hornets  out? 
His  lines  retire, — 

Are  fading, — fading! 
But  over  sing  and  thud  of  ball 
Is  heard  anew  the  steady  call, — 
By  the  left  flank,  march ! 

Strike  the  tune,  O,  drummer! 
Southward  sweep  the  line, — 

There's  something  left  of  summer. 

About  Cold  Harbor  smokes  the  toil 
Of  flashing  guns 

And  fuse  and  hammer: 
And  through  the  stream  of  sad  turmoil 
An  eddy  runs 

Of  clamor,  clamor! 


62  BY  THE   LEFT    FLANK 

But  firmly  grips  the  iron  hand 
And  hard  as  grit  the  prompt  command,- 
By  the  left  flank,  march ! 

Drum  us  on,  O,  drummer! 
Close  up  the  broken  lines; 
'Tis  almost  end  of  summer. 

A  winter  long  of  barricade; 
Of  grasp  to  close 

The  roads  surrounding: 
Of  crafty  mine  and  active  spade, 
And  patient  blows 

Still  pounding, — pounding! 
But  while  despair  in  shadow  flies 
A  breeze  of  courage  clears  the  skies. — 
By  the  left  flank,  march ! 

Work  for  you,  O,  drummer! 
We'll  fight  it  out  on  this  line 
If  it  takes  a  second  summer. 

At  last  the  ranks  in  glory  stand ! 
And  far  and  scant 
Dogmatic  baying, 


BY  THE    LEFT    FLANK  63 

And  tramping  north  the  army  bands 
All   jubilant 

Are  playing, — playing! 
But  as  through  night,  so  now  by  day 
Same  quiet  leader  points  the  way: — 
Homeward,  boys,  we  march, 

Flag  and  gun  and  drummer: 
We've  fought  it  out  on  this  line: 
We've  won  our  battle  summer! 


ST.  MICHAEL'S  BELLS 

Last  light  of  dim  Palmetto  strand, 
Last  faint  adieu  of.  dying  land, 
To  distant  sail  that  seaward  swells, — 
The  golden  ball  above  St.  Michael's  bells. 

Old  now,  the  quaint  and  stately  tower, 

And  old,  when  girt  with  scarlet  power, 

Gay  Tarleton  rode  the  dangerous  dells, 

And  Marion's  foxes  fled  St.  Michael's  bells. 

Long  years  ago,  the  City  burned. 
The  crimson  columns  wheeled  and  turned 
Till  Home,  and  Hall,  and  Prison  cells 
Were  ashen  ruin  round  St.  Michael's  bells. 

Saved ! — By  a  miracle,  they  said. 
But  while  they  boast,  far  over-head, 
An  eddying  brand  the  wind  impels, 
And  fastens  flame  high  o'er  St.  Michael's  bells. 
64 


ST.  MICHAEL'S  BELLS  65 

It  flutters: — faint  as  dying  gasp: — 
Then  gleams  and  glows  with  angry  clasp. 
Its  brightening  sparkle  danger  tells, 
For  who  may  dare  to  climb  St.  Michael's  bells? 

Who  dares? — O,  pale  and  palsied  men, 
O,  helpless  throng,  look  upward  then! 
Higher  than  flew  Sir  Henry's  shells 
Climbs  one  to  save  St.  Michael's  bells! 

Slowly. — Aloft. — Far  up  the  spire  ; 
He  hurls  away  the  flake  of  fire! 
Slowly  descends. — Then  break  in  yells 
The    thanks — and    thanks — for    saved    St.    Michael's 
bells. 

They  crowd  to  meet  him.    Shrill  and  high 
With  startled  wonder,  grows  their  cry. 
"  Black  and  a  Slave!  " — who  thus  excels: 
But  "  Slave  no  more!  "  ring  good  St.  Michael's  bells! 

O,  brothers  proud,  the  lesson  heed. 
From  you  we  learned  our  worthiest  deed! 
In  vain  your  Southern  pride  rebels: 
Be  free!  rang  out  your  own  St.  Michael's  bells! 


66  ST.  MICHAEL'S  BELLS 

He  bore  our  flag  thro'  battle-fire! 
He  climbed  the  Nation's  blazing  spire! 
Your  heart,  O,  South,  your  hate  dispels: 
Be  free!  be  free!  ring  all  Columbia's  bells. 


GETTYSBURG 

When  the  leaves  were  sere  and  crimson, 

And  crisp  the  morning  air, 
And  wound  the  breath  of  autumn 

Through  the  forest's  golden  hair, 
On  a  field  of  death  and  silence, 

Where  a  battle-storm  had  blown, 
Came  a  Nation,  clad  in  mourning, 

With  a  monumental  stone. 

All  around  them  lay  the  dead, 

Underneath  the  flowers  asleep; 
All  above  them  smiled  the  sky 

Gilding  warm  the  rocky  steep, 
And  with  words  of  shining  glory 

From  a  golden  lip  and  tongue 
They  made  the  mountain  sacred 

Where  the  battle-bugles  rung. 
67 


68  GETTYSBURG 

While  the  prayer  is  floating  upward, 

Sits  apart  an  angel  form 
With  a  scroll  like  whitest  fleece-cloud 

That  follows  up  the  storm, 
And  she  writes  with  diamond  pencil 

Each  buried  soldier's  name: — 
And  the  angel  form  is  Justice, 

And  the  angel  pen  is  Fame! 


THE  BRONZE  LIBERTY 

I  light  my  torch ! — and  hold  it 

Above  the  sea,  beneath  the  sky, 
While  night  and  storm  enfold  it, 

And  throbbing  ships  go  safely  by. 

I  light  my  torch! — and  glowing, 

Flames  up  the  old  love  born  of  war, 

When  France,  with  banners  blowing, 
Shared  with  us  half  of  blood  and  scar. 

I  light  my  torch ! — it  scatters 

Broad  beams  athwart  the  wondering  Night, 
Where  bleeding  and  in  tatters 

The  Right  lies  under  heel  of  Might. 

I  light  my  torch! — it  levels 

A  flaming  spear  at  lust  and  greed 

That  rob  for  royal  revels 

The  fire  and  crust  of  starving  need. 
69 


70  THE    BRONZE    LIBERTY 

I  light  my  torch ! — and  shackles 

Drop  off  in  shame  from  serf  and  slave: 

War-drums  and  rifle  crackles 

Give  place  to  hearts  that  heal  and  save. 

I  light  my  torch! — and  Power 

That  throttles  free  thought  at  its  birth 

Goes  down,  as  crumbles  tower 

When  hidden  surges  rock  the  earth. 

I  light  my  torch ! — behold  it ! 

France  gave  it  twice  to  our  dear  land! 
Though  Night  and  Storm  enfold  it 

Undying  lifts  our  Freedom's  hand! 


HER  EXPLANATION 

HE 

When  you  said  no, — how  could  I  know 

Your  no  meant  yes? 
Did  you  mean  stay,  when  you  said  go? 

Now,  love,  confess! 

SHE 
You  silly  boy! — when  tongue  said  no 

The  lips  smiled  yes. 
When  eyes  said  stay,  what  need  to  go? 

Could  you  not  guess? 


ARIEL 

The  Poet  paints  an  elfin  face 

In  murmurous  dream  of  summer  night, 
With  step  of  mischief  yet  of  grace 

And  filmy  wings  of  marvelous  flight. 

He  sparkles  in  a  coral  cup, 

He  girdles  earth  with  instant  span, 
He  calls  the  ocean  spirits  up, 

And  mocks  the  groveling  Caliban. 

What  was  the  dream  now  wakes  to  act, 
Strange  light  shines  back  on  mystic  Past, 

The  fancied  girdle  grows  to  fact, 
We  have  our  Ariel  tamed  and  fast. 

A  spark  electric  crowns  his  head, 
He  rests  his  wings  in  bulb  of  fire, 

The  click  of  keys  his  dainty  tread 

And  winding  round  the  world  a  wire. 
72 


MY  CREED 

All  sure  results  in  one  shy  maxim  lurk: — 
There  is  no  Genius  in  the  world  but — Work! 


73 


GENERAL  ORDERS 

1867 

You  will  march  against  the  Indians 

So  the  cheerful  order  ran: — 
Where  the  bubbles  on  the  flood 
Are  but  daily  drops  of  blood, 
Where  the  gleamings  in  the  grass 
Are  the  bones  of  those  who  pass : — 
So  the  pleasant  order  ran, 
Sent  to  Philip  Sheridan. 

You  may  go  and  fight  the  Indians! 

So  the  mocking  order  ran, — 
To  the  soldier  who  had  won 
At  the  setting  of  the  sun 
What  the  bloody  morning  lost 
At  a  frightful  battle-cost: — 

So  the  sneering  order  ran, 

Sent  to  Philip  Sheridan. 
74 


GENERAL  ORDERS  75 

Hurry  west  to  the  Missouri: — 

So  the  stinging  order  ran; 
Lest  the  cities  in  a  flame 
With  the  luster  of  his  name 
Take  the  rider  and  his  steed 
For  the  hour  of  coming  need ! — 

So  the  hurried  order  ran, 

Marked  "  Philip  Sheridan." 


You  will  march  against  the  Indians: 

So  the  People's  order  ran! 
Not  the  tierce  and  subtle  Sioux 
Flitting  crafty  forests  through; 
Not  Pawnee,  or  thieving  Crow 
Wait  your  battle-march  and  blow ; — 
So  the  People's  word  began, 
Sent  to  Philip  Sheridan. 

But  against  the  nearer  Indians: — 

So  the  People's  order  ran: 
Greed  of  office  and  of  gold, 
Truth  and  Honor  bought  and  sold, 


76  GENERAL   ORDERS 

Lust  of  power  and  of  place 
Banners  folded  in  disgrace: 
So  the  People's  order  ran, 
Sent  to  Philip  Sheridan. 

You  will  march  against  the  Indians! 

So  the  People's  order  ran. — 
Yours  the  Leader's  flag  and  drum 
In  the  years  that  are  to  come ; 
Yours  the  trust  of  all  the  State, 
Sooner, — later; — we  can  wait! 
So  the  People's  order  ran, 
Marked  "  Philip  Sheridan." 

1888 

Ah! — we  waited, — and  we  waited, 

Till  another  order  ran ! 
From  the  camp-fire  of  the  stars 
Where  the  drum  of  Angel  wars- 
Beats  eternally  the  call 
For  new  armies;  for  us  all. 
And  thus  the  order  ran, 
Sent  to  Philip  Sheridan. 


GENERAL   ORDERS  77 

You  will  cross  the  river,  General: — 

So  the  final  order  ran: — 
You  will  pass  the  gulf  alone 
Without  sword,  or  bugle  blown, 
Without  flag  or  uniform, 
Be  it  night  or  calm  or  storm : — 

So  the  final  order  ran, 

Heard  by  Philip  Sheridan. 

You  will  join  the  troop  of  Heaven: — 

So  the  solemn  order  ran : — 
At  the  sands  upon  its  shore 
Waits  for  you  an  army-corps: 
You  will  lead  it: — ah,  we  know 
How  that  army-corps  will  go! 

So  the  hurried  order  ran, 

Read  to  Philip  Sheridan. 

We  await  you  at  the  outpost: — 

So  the  end  of  order  ran. — 
And  the  soldier  bowed  his  head 
For  his  journey  with  the  dead: — 


78  GENERAL   ORDERS 

Answered: — "  Without  flag  or  drum, 
I  am  coming; — I  have  come." 
So  the  soldier's  answer  ran, 
Signed — Philip  Sheridan. 


THE  PEOPLE  TO  THEIR  LEADERS 

(After  Election  for  President.     1876) 

Put  up  your  drums! 
Plan  peace, — not  war! 
We  do  not  choose  to  drag  your  battle-car: 

We  have  no  blood  to  spare ! — 
Take  in  your  angry  flags  that  beat  the  air 
Like  wings  of  fighting  eagles:  drown  the  brand 
Whose  flash  may  clang  the  fire-bells  of  the  land, 
And  stop  your  dangerous  drums! 

Put  up  your  drums! 
Let  Labor  lead: — 
Your  flimsy  fret  give  way  to  solid  deed. 

Another  sound  be  ours! 

The   rain   of   gathered   grain,   like   pour   of  showers; 
The  ring  of  hammer;  throb  of  toiling  steam; 
The  whirr  of  wheel  at  throat  of  busy  stream; 
Not  beat  of  useless  drums! 
79 


80         THE   PEOPLE    TO   THEIR   LEADERS 

Put  up  your  drums! 
Law  rules, — not  Force! 
Who  wins,  who  loses  laurel  of  the  Course 

Your  flaming  eyes  may  trace. 
We  have  not  staked  the  Nation  on  the  race! 
We  do  not  mean  to  risk  upon  the  strife 
One  orphan's  tear,  one  gasp  of  wounded  life! 
Attention!     Stop  your  drums! 

Put  up  your  drums! 
O,  shame!  that  now, 
When   hundred  years   have  crowned   our  civic  brow 

Crazed  partizans  should  dare 
To  wake  the  wolves  of  riot  from  their  lair: 
To  frame  in  stormy  failure  Freedom's  boast, 
And   line  with  separate  wrecks  our  darkened   coast! 
For  shame! — you  men  with  drums! 

Put  up  your  drums! 

Wan  cheeks  are  wet 
With  tears  that  in  sad  eyes  are  gathering  yet. 

Our  graves  are  new, — not  old. 
Grief  has  not  lost  an  ache,  nor  love  grown  cold. 


THE   PEOPLE    TO   THEIR   LEADERS 

The  rifles  hardly  have  had  time  to  rust, 
And  slowly  hate  is  changed  to  olden  trust. 
We've  had  enough  of  drums! 

Put  up  your  drums! 
The  People  speak! 
They  mean  one  law  for  all, — the  strong, — the  weak, 

And  that  one  law  obeyed ! 

They  count  no  ballots  with  the  soldier's  blade. 
They  mean  the  struggle  without  shame  shall  cease, 
And  mark  who  threaten  at  the  doors  of  Peace. 
Beware!     Put  up  your  drums! 


THE  GUEST  BOOK 

Salve! 

Welcome! — to  Love  in  bloom! 
As  at  new  smile  of  June  laughs  back  the  flower, 
As  greets  the  thirsty  grain  sweet  help  of  shower, 

Welcome !    Our  hearts  make  room ! 

Mane! 

No:  do  not  leave  us,  pray! 
The  happy  hours  have  been  too  swift  and  flying. 
Must  joy  so  soon  find  out  that  joy  is  dying? 

O,  no! — we  bid  you  stay. 

Vale! 

Farewell !    So  pleasures  flee. 
Few  sadder  words  on  this  sad  earth  are  spoken: 
There  seem  no  links  that  keep  their  clasp  unbroken. 

Farewell! — if  that  must  be! 


82 


ENGINE  NO.  658 

Don't  be  afraid ! 
If  my  muscles  are  steel  and  driven  by  fire, 

And  my  temper  is  ugly  when  steam  is  up, 
Yet  I  know  my  work  by  the  tested  tire, 
And  the  velvety  oil  in  the  journal  cup. 

In  the  morning's  blue 
I'm  to  pull  the  President  safely  through! 

Be  careful,  Page! 
Keep  hand  on  throttle!     I'll  mind  your  touch 

As  the  needle  yields  to  the  magnet's  sway, 
I'm  hot  for  a  race;  but,  little  or  much, 

As  you  give  me  the  steam,  the  wheels  shall  obey. 

I  know  what  to  do. — 
I'm  to  pull  the  President  safely  through ! 

All  ready?— 

I'm  off!— 

I've  got  him  behind  me!  flying  at  last 
83 


84  ENGINE    NO.    658 

From  the  muck  of  the  Capital  north  to  the  sea! 
Huzza! — for  I've  got  him!     Page,  hurry  me  fast 
From  the  feverous  heat  to  the  winds  that  are  free! 

In  the  cool  of  the  dew, 
I,  and  the  President,— we'll  pull  through! 

Clear  me  the  track! 
Lie  still  at  the  siding  while  I  sweep  by. 

Not  a  shriek  of  a  whistle,  nor  roar  of  a  train, 
Nor  clank  of  a  coupling! — why?    Want  to  learn  why? 
Don't  you  know  my  one  passenger,  brave  thro'  his 

pain? 

Remember  it, — you ! 
I'm  pulling  our  patient  President  through! 

Ho!     CityofPenn! 
And  farm  and  fair  village  and  hamlet  asleep! 

Before  you  wake  up  in  your  wonder,  I'm  gone! 
And  nearer  the  beat  of  the  measureless  deep, 
And  nearer  the  surf-bell's  cool  monotone! 

The  waves  are  in  view! — 
I  have  almost  pulled  the  President  through ! 


ENGINE    NO.    658  85 

Wind  of  the  Sea! 
I  feel  your  breath  on  my  forehead  hot! 

Waste  never  on  me  one  murmur  of  thine; 
Bear  health  and  strength  to  the  President's  cot! 
O,  salt  of  the  billows !    O,  balm  of  the  brine ! 

Between  us  two 
We  hope  to  pull  the  President  through! 

Ah,  Engineer! 
You  could  not  see: — but  the  track  ran  on! 

With  a  golden  rail  and  a  noiseless  car; 
Up  from  the  beaches  of  Elberon ; 
Up  and  beyond  the  zenith  star! 

Alas !  not  you, — 
But  the  Angels — were  pulling  the  President  through ! 


THAT  BREAKFAST 

(As  told  by  one  of  Dewey's  gunners) 

Hungry  and  tired  we  lay 
In  the  lull  of  the  morning's  fray 
When  aloft  the  Admiral  flew 
Into  the  clearing  blue 
Signal  for  breakfast.    All 
Wondered  at  curious  call 
Braving  the  Luzon  light, 
But  odd  in  the  heart  of  a  fight: — 
Very  odd,  we  said. 

For,  into  the  maw  of  the  bay 
Whose  shadows  blinded  our  \vay, 
Over  torpedo  shark 
Hiding  his  teeth  in  the  dark, 
Under  the  island  guns 
Where  treacherous  current  runs 
86 


THAT   BREAKFAST  87 

We  saw  our  cruisers  wheel 
Up  to  a  gloom  of  steel 
Spotted  with  red. 

Along  a  smoking  curve 
Without  one  hesitant  nerve, 
Through  storm  of  the  rifled  shot 
Grinding  plates  to  a  blot, 
With  eye  out-speeding  the  ships 
But  will  on  the  firm-set  lips, 
Smashing  the  obstinate  decks, 
Feeding  the  sea  with  wrecks, 
Our  leader  led. 

Then  up  and  down  again 
In  sleet  of  the  iron  rain, 
Hurling  a  ratting  hail, 
Ripping  the  resonant  mail, 
Till  men  grewr  faint  and  white 
Under  the  black  of  the  fight. — 
Up  to  the  mast-head  went 
Signal  to  halyard  bent, 

"Breakfast!"  it  read. 


88  THAT   BREAKFAST 

Ah,  what  a  laugh  and  a  shout 
From  the  grimy  ships  broke  out! 
"  For  us," — with  a  cheer  we  said — 
"Victory  first,  then  bread! 
But  the  Admiral,  he  knows  best." 
And  we  settled  to  food  and  rest 
Till  a  signal  flew  at  the  main, — 
"  Let  now  for  the  braggarts  of  Spain 
Breakfast  be  spread." 

We  spread  it  swiftly  and  well. 
With  a  raw  of  steel  on  the  shell, 
With  shrapnel  cuts  in  a  sheaf 
Of  our  best  Olympian  beef, 
With  coffee  of  outpoured  flame 
And  liberal  platter  of  game, 
And  instead  of  the  tropic  dews 
With  fizz  of  the  sparkling  fuse 
The  Dons  were  fed ! 

We  gave  them  many  a  roast 
And  crisped  their  decks  to  a  toast; 
We  tossed  them  hard-tack  shot 
And  never  a  cracker  forgot ; 


THAT    BREAKFAST  89 

We  wonder  no  Spaniard  begs 
For  more  of  our  eight-inch  eggs ; 
Till  over  the  table  tips 
And  the  food  goes  down  with  the  ships 
In  harbor  bed ! 

Laugh  at  our  breakfast, — you, — 
Or  scold  at  the  flags  we  flew? 
Sulk  in  the  silk  of  your  chair 
As  you  skulked  the  flame  in  the  air? 
Anew  you  are  trailing  our  track 
With  the  usual  stab  in  the  back: 
But  spite  of  your  clamor,  shall  reach 
Our  table  to  Orient  beach 
With  wine  and  bread. 

Wine  of  our  freedom,  sirs, 
That  blood  of  the  Nation  stirs ; 
Bread  of  intelligent  toil 
That  grows  from  the  generous  soil; 
The  wine  and  the  bread  of  Peace 
When  the  beat  of  the  drums  shall  cease 
And  war  and  guns  retreat 
For  Commerce  to  draw  the  fleet 
By  a  golden  thread. 


90  THAT    BREAKFAST 

They  may  spatter  the  air  with  foam, 
Our  grumblers  growling  at  home, 
But  the  girdle  of  isles  will  grow 
Into  girdle  of  gems  that  glow 
With  the  colors  of  harvest  gold, 
And  purples  the  fruits  unfold; 
With  the  reds  of  the  bountiful  sun 
Rosing  what  Courage  has  won 
From  Doubt  and  Dread ! 

Now  we  whose  batteries  played 
And  you  who  waited  and  prayed, 
Let  us  all  give  thanks  and  rejoice, 
With  a  thrill  in  the  heart  and  the  voice, 
That  our  Nation,  scorned  in  the  past, 
Has  proved  its  manhood  at  last 
And,  swarming  from  garlanded  towns, 
With  glory  of  gratitude  crowns 
Our  Admiral's  head! 


WHERE  MY  WIFE  SLEEPS 

Silent  and  sad  are  the  words 
On  the  marble  above  her, 

But  the  faithful  blossoms  and  birds 
Equally  love  her. 

The  flowers  I  plant  creep  slow 
Into  the  grass  above  her, 

Trying  to  find  her  below 
And  tell  her  they  love  her. 

The  birds  sing  tenderest  songs 
In  the  branches  above  her, — 

How  shall  I  measure  my  ways 
To  show  that  I  love  her? 

I  will  love  the  good  and  the  true 
On  the  earth  above  her, 

And  the  tender  and  faithful  few 
Who  are  glad  that  I  love  her. 
91 


92  WHERE    MY   WIFE    SLEEPS 

They  will  not  love  me  the  less 
That,  kneeling  above  her, 

I  pray  that  the  angels  may  bless 
All  the  living  who  love  her. 


THE  HOME-COMING  OF  THE  OREGON 

The  Oregon ! 
Yes,  there  she  comes,  the  Peerless! — lifting  mast 

With  morn's  blue  wonder  on  its  pennoned  tip ; 
Rising  with  sunrise;  homeward  bound  at  last; 

And  stars  greet  stars  of  valorous  battleship. 
To  Golden-Gate  with  almost  lover's  longing 
The  Nation  wild  and  jubilant  is  thronging, 

And,  thunder-clad,  a  boom  of  welcome  runs, 

To  those  who  fed  the  fires, 
To  those  who  aimed  the  guns. 

The  Oregon ! 
There  came  one  morn  a  click  from  pulsing  wire 

Faint  as  the  even-song  in  throat  of  bird, 
And  yet  electric  on  its  line  of  fire 

With  danger  in  the  East.    The  great  ship  heard! 
And  tore  adown  the  coast  with  screw  blades  throbbing 
And  steam-throat  strained  with  choke  of  angry  sobbing, 

93 


94      THE    HOME-COMING   OF   THE    OREGON 

Then,  wrapped  in  smoke,  thro'  blind  Magellan  runs 
With  men  who  drive  the  fires, 
And  men  who  train  the  guns. 


The  Oregon ! 
Now  north,  on-driven  with  hot  coals  of  wrath, 

While  all  our  home  nerves  vibrate  hope  and  fear! 
Will  the  dark  Spaniard  bar  her  perilous  path? 

Must  one  fight  six, — O,  could  we  see  and  hear! 
Not  they  disturbed  who  toward  the  battle  guide  her! 
Not  she  the  lithe  and  springing  water-tiger ! 

On  to  the  rescue  day  and  night  she  runs, 

With  men  who  force  the  fires, 
And  men  who  load  the  guns. 

The  Oregon ! 
At  last  she  rides  among  her  sister  ships 

Where  hides  the  Spaniard  in  his  jungle  bay, 
Until  one  morn  when  from  his  lair  he  slips 

And  flies  along  a  battle-flaming  way 
Till  all  his  fleet  with  bursting  shells  are  riven, 
Till  all  save  one  on  grinding  beach  are  driven, 


THE    HOME-COMING    OF   THE    OREGON       95 

Till  one,  defiant,  in  the  far  front  runs 
With  courage  at  his  fires, 
But  blood  upon  his  guns. 


The  Oregon ! 
Hurry,  my  Oregon!     Crowd  the  Colon's  wake! — 

Aye,  boys  of  the  Brooklyn,  see  that  racer  rush! 
Smashing  the  waves  that  into  splinters  break, 

Or  grind  to  snow  beneath  her  angry  crush! 
She  plunges  on  spurred  hard  by  thonging  master: 
Her  eight-inch  shells  alone  can  fly  the  faster. 

War-hot  her  men  as  on  the  fighter  runs 

All  red  at  furnace  fires, 
All  black  at  smoking  guns. 

The  Oregon ! 
She  had  some  thought  when  victory  was  won, — 

Rescued  the  sinking  and  sea-tombed  the  slain, — • 
Of  that  blue  bay  beneath  a  Cuban  sun 

Where  sleeps  the  wreck  of  her  poor  sister  Maine 
Twisted  and  torn,  in  mud  of  treachery  sinking, 
And  yet  to  brutal  past  fair  future  linking. 


96      THE    HOME-COMING   OF   THE    OREGON 

Ah, — six  for  one! — she  signals  as  she  runs, 
And  southward  smoke  her  fires 
And  go  her  confident  guns. 

The  Oregon ! 
Now  home  she  comes  from  Orient  waters  far; 

Half  round  the  world  the  girdle  of  her  trail ; 
With  glory  braided  in  each  stripe  and  star 

And  men  that  swarm  in  blue  on  sweep  of  rail. 
For  her  loud  welcome, — Queen  of  the  western  water! 
For  brains  that  built  her  and  for  nerve  that  fought  her! 

Glory  for  all  as  down  her  pennant  runs, 

For  men  who  trim  the  fires, 
For  men  who  man  the  guns! 


OCTOBER 

None  of  your  damsels  fickle  and  fair; 

Aprils  of  sunshine  clouding  to  rain ; 
Crowned  with  the  crocus  just  up  to  the  air, 

Or  veiled  with  the  snow-flakes  falling  again; 
Summer  in  morning  and  winter  at  eve; 

Smiling  and  frowning  on  lover  and  friend  ; 
Whose  voices  seem  ever  a  petulant  weave 

Of  bird-songs  and  wind-cries  down  to  the  end. 

None  of  your  maidens  the  sea-sand  knows; 

Junes  of  the  idle  and  languorous  heat; 
In  lace  of  the  lily  and  velvet  of  rose. 

And  bidding  the  world  lie  prone  at  their  feet; 
With  nothing  to  do  and  nothings  to  say; 

Just  able  to  manage  faint  flutter  of  fan; 
Butterfly  blooms  very  sweet  for  a  day 

Though  not  for  the  life  of  a  work-worn  man. 
97 


98  OCTOBER 

But  a  stately  matron  shall  wear  my  crown, 

Clad  in  the  glories  she  colors  for  me, 
Whose  children  cling  to  the  folds  of  her  gown, 

Grain  of  the  harvest  and  fruit  of  the  tree. 
In  a  setting  all  golden  her  rubies  glow  red, 

And  her  touch  is  sun-warm  tho'  the  winter  is  near; 
There  is  truth  in  her  eyes  and  grace  in  her  tread ; 

So  welcome  October,  my  Queen  of  the  year ! 


CUBA,— CUBA! 

A  drowning  man  in  an  angry  sea 
With  death  at  his  throat  cries  gaspingly 
For  Ida— Ida! 

The  girl  at  the  lighthouse,  lithe  and  slim, 
Shoves  off  in  her  life-boat,  taut  and  trim: 

Shoves  off  in  the  tempest,  scowling  and  black, 
And  piling  waves  in  her  dauntless  track, 

And  dares  the  threat  of  the  howling  wind, — 
A  shriek  ahead,  and  a  shark  behind ! 

The  drowning  man  in  the  maddened  sea, 
With  death  at  his  throat  cries  hopefully 
For  Ida, — Ida! 

She  sees  him  now  in  an  instant's  glare 
And  winds  her  hands  in  his  sinking  hair. 
99 


100  CUBA, CUBA  ! 

She  has  him  safe  in  her  tossing  boat, — 
The  bravest  girl  on  the  waves  afloat! 

And  the  baffled  Death  is  alone  in  the  dark 
With  his  beaten  brother,  the  hungry  shark. 

The  drowning  man  in  the  stormy  sea 
Who  cries  for  a  life-boat  gaspingly 
Is  Cuba, — Cuba! 

And  Ours  the  light  on  the  headland  shore, 
The  surest  hand,  and  the  nearest  oar! 

Shall  we  give  him  up  to  a  death  in  the  dark  ? 
To  the  mercy  and  maw  of  Don,  the  shark? 

O,  fair  Columbia!  grapple  and  save 

The  drowning  man  from  an  imminent  grave! 

Thank  God!  a  hand  in  the  dripping  hair! 
At  last! — a  boat  and  a  light  in  the  air! 
For  Cuba, — Cuba! 


GARIBALDI 

King  of  Italy,  open  your  doors! 

Open  your  eyes! 
Sweep  the  dance  from  your  palace  floors! 

Italy  dies! 

Never  can  lute  or  laughter  drown 
The  cry  that  haunts  the  dusk  of  the  town. 

Take  our  hero  out  of  his  chains ! 

Prayer  and  pitiful  tears  are  done. 
Heed  the  thought  that  thrills  our  veins :- 

Italy,   Italy!     Grand  and   One! 

Was  it  the  frown  of  an  Emperor  made 

Italy  thus? 
Victor  Emmanuel!  are  you  afraid? 

Lean  upon  us! 

Trust  our  tattered  flags  in  the  breeze 
To  stop  the  swarm  of  the  Gallic  bees! 
101 


302  --..,'   GARIBALDI 

Take  our  hero  out  of  his  chains! 

Half  his  work  is  yet  to  be  done. 
Throned  and  crowned  his  purpose  reigns. 

Italy,  Italy!     Grand  and  One! 

Have  you  forgotten  the  death  and  the  dust 

Borne  in  the  past? 
Or  does  the  canker  of  royal  rust 

Win  at  the  last? 

Victor,  our  King,  one  breath  of  shame 
Dims  eternally  name  and  fame! 

Take  our  hero  out  of  his  chains! 

Base  the  deed  your  cowards  have  done! 
France  may  lose,  but  Liberty  gains! 

Italy,  Italy!     Grand  and  One! 

Bar  the  red  blood  from  its  artery  home 

And  palsy  arrives. 
The  heart  of  the  Nation  is  manacled  Rome! 

Off  with  the  gyves! 
Beggars  no  more, — we  dare  command! 
Give  sobbing  Rome  to  the  angry  land. 


GARIBALDI 

Take  our  hero  out  of  his  chains! 

Ere  we  speak  with  the  plainer  gun. 
Quick ! — or  we  sing  to  the  battle  strains 

Italy,  Italy!     Grand  and  One! 

See,  O,  King!  the  light  in  the  West: — 

Blaze  of  the  dawn! 
When  they  struck  at  America's  breast 

Blood  was  drawn ! 
Never  again  shall  Terror  drag 
Into  the  dust  that  fearless  flag! 

Take  our  hero  out  of  his  chains ! 

Fight  the  battle  they  fought  and  won. 
Yet  the  work  of  the  Age  remains! 

Italy,  Italy!     Grand  and  ONE! 


THE  SONG  AND  THE  SINGER 

(Ashtabula,  1876) 

The  Love  that  is  patient  and  pleadeth  long 
Was  daily  theme  of  the  Singer's  song. 

The  simple  words  and  the  winning  tones 
Went  with  the  winds  o'er  seas  and  zones. 

The  Worker,  rough,  on  the  mountain  slope, 
Dug  for  the  gold  of  a  purer  Hope. 

The  weary  needle,  in  want  and  scorn, 
Glowed  with  the  light  of  a  restful  morn. 

On  the  stones  that  girded  the  felon's  cell 
Last  cry  of  the  suffering  Saviour  fell. 

The  Sailor  sang  in  the  Arctic  storm 
The  love  that  folded  him,  safe  and  warm. 
104 


THE    SONG   AND  THE    SINGER  IO5 

And  with  every  gasp  of  the  dying  was  heard 
Some  memory  faint  of  the  Singer's  word. 

Musing,  he  sat  on  a  homeward  train; 
And  a  song-bud  opened  in  heart  and  brain. 

"  It  is  this," — he  said  to  the  wife  at  his  side, 
Searching  his  Bible  for  theme  and  guide: 

And  he  hummed  it  low  to  her  faithful  ear 
Nor  knew  some  angels  were  hovering  near; 

Nor  saw  them  gather  in  wondering  ring 
As  Princes  await  their  Lord  and  King: 

Nor  heard  them  say  as  they  lingered  nigh, — 

"  The  Song — and  the  Singer — are  fit  for  the  sky." 

Then  came  quick  crash  of  a  crumbling  bridge, 
And  flames  that  reddened  the  river's  ridge! 

Down  in  the  gulf  wide  shatter  of  train, 
Swift  crackle  of  fire,  low  moaning  of  pain, 

Death-cry  of  agony,  sobbing  and  prayer; 
Blood  in  the  water  and  tears  in  the  air; — 


106  THE    SONG   AND  THE    SINGER 

Then  silence  at  last,  when  the  flames  have  fled, 
And  help  for  the  living,  and  search  for  the  dead, 

Till  the  stars  shine  sad  in  the  sorrowful  even ! 

But  the  Song  and  the  Singer  were  both — in  Heaven! 


SCHOOL  CHILDREN 

Every  day 

I  watch  the  stream  go  by! — 
Brunette  and  blonde,  red  cheek  and  brown, 

The  step  of  thought,  the  romp  of  play, 
These  curls  close  cut,  that  tress  astray, 

Rough  coat  of  boy,  soft  maiden  gown: — 

So  every  day 
The  children  pass  me  by. 

And  yet  to-day 
The  endless  stream  goes  by. 
They  do  not  see  me  moving  slow 

With  burden  of  my  three-score  years. 
For  them  there  seems  nor  grief  nor  tears! — 
Why  should  I  tell  them  what  I  know 

As  yet  to-day 
They  gaily  pass  me  by? 
107 


108  SCHOOL   CHILDREN 

Some  coming  day 
The  stream  will  still  go  by: — 
But  I  shall  be  with  other  stream 

That  pours  into  the  Master's  school, 
Where  Love  makes  mild  each  rigorous  rule 
And  watchful  eyes  with  mercy  beam! 

And  so  that  day, 
A  child,  I  shall  pass  by! 


SUN-SPOTS 

We  see  them  through  the  lucent  lens 
That  brings  the  glow-orb's  glory  near, 

And  shows  us  yawning  black  of  dens 
Whose  mystery  hides  in  deeps  of  sphere, 

Till  curious  doubt  or  guess  astray 

Athwarj  our  clouds  of  wonder  play. 

They  seem  to  bring  us  wreck  of  storms 
And  blaze  of  vast  volcano  fires; 

War-rush  of  grim  gigantic  forms 

With  flanking  winds  that  topple  spires; 

Or  click  of  thick  and  vicious  hail 

Like  olden  arrows  rained  on  mail. 

Mayhap,  sometimes  when  open  wide, 
These  gates  of  onyx  rimmed  with  flame 

Warn  earth  of  war's  incoming  tide, 
Red-crested  surf  of  blood  and  shame, 
109 


HO  SUN-SPOTS 

Or,  winding  through  each  vain  defense, 
Death-coil  of  creeping  Pestilence. 

I  do  not  know.     Do  you — or  you? 

Yet  turning  leaves  of  olden  years 
One  sees  that  when  earth-graves  are  few 

Scarce  spot  of  gloom  on  disk  appears, 
But  when  runs  death  o'er  sea  and  land 
Gather  in  groups  the  black  gulf-band. 

And  so,  at  times,  each  lack  of  glow 
To  me  seems  yawn  of  prison  gate, 

Black  road  to  some  vast  realm  of  woe 
Where  fiends  and  flames  lost  souls  await, 

And  deep  in  depths  fire-domed  beneath 

Sound  weep  and  wail  and  gnash  of  teeth. 

Seems  path  that  sorrowing  Dante  trod 
Through  realms  of  unrepented  sin, 

Where  Pluto  swings  avenging  rod 
And  Charon  crosses,  rowing  in 

Boat-loads  of  ghosts  all  wan  and  white 

With  death  and  dark  of  starless  night: 


SUX-SPOTS  III 

Walled  in  with  walls  of  swirling  flame, 
Shut  in  by  gates  with  bars  of  blaze, 

Sad  wreck  of  human  sin  and  shame, 

Gray  ghosts  of  spent  and  wasted  days ! — 

What  wonder  that  their  path  of  doom 

On  glow  of  Sun  shows  black  of  gloom! 

But,  in  more  hopeful  mood,  I  scan 

The  Eden  tale  of  Genesis, 
And  wonder  if  the  scarlet  ban 

Of  flaming  sword  guards  realm  of  bliss 
At  end  of  pathway  blossoming, 
Where  souls  and  angels  live  and  sing. 

A  Heaven  in  very  heart  of  Sun ! 

But  reached  by  road  of  darkness, — road 
Whose  shadows  into  splendors  run 

And  lead  to  gates  of  blest  abode 
Where  wings  and  crowns  greet  saintly  eyes 
And  bloom  all  blooms  of  Paradise : 

Vast  home  of  God  the  Father,  whose 
Fire-flash  of  crown  frames  Corona, 

Who  sowed  through  arch  of  quivering  blues 
Star-seeds  that  grow  and  glow  by  Law — 


112  SUN-SPOTS 

Obedient  lamps  to  light  our  way 
Through  dark  of  night  to  blaze  of  day. 

Or  which,  or  neither,  One  or  naught? 

We  can  not  tell,  but  this  we  know: 
The  tale  in  flaming  letters  taught, 

Of  future  bliss  or  gathering  woe, 
Discloses  to  poor  human  sense 
The  truth  of  God's  omnipotence. 


NUMBER  FOURTEEN 

Yes! — This  is  where  my  husband  hives, 
Each  in  her  separate,  sacred  cell, 
His  honey-bees; — his  swarm  of  wives! 
You  see  how  full,  and  crowded  well: — 
A  kind  of  subdivided  hell! 
Where  daily  torture  wrings  the  heart, 
Where  falsehood  blinds  the  innocent  eyes, 
And  joints  of  truth  pried  wide  apart 
Yet  almost  perfect  seem,  so  hinged  and  wired  with  lies ! 

You  like  the  prospect  ? — well ; — the  sky 
Is  blue  enough.    The  mountains  stand, 
With  white  hair  blowing  lone  and  high, 
As  grave  as  in  some  better  land. 
With  bridge  of  sunbeams  rills  are  spanned ; 
And  in  the  west  the  crimson  bloom 
That  flowers  up  from  grave  of  Sun 
Tries  hard  to  rose  this  vale  of  doom, 
And  into  mold  of  grace  its  social  horror  run! 


H4  NUMBER    FOURTEEN 

Off  yonder,  on  horizon  line, 
Where  great  white  tent  of  mist  appears, 
Lies  Salt  Lake  with  its  bitter  brine. 
Its  springs  are  not  our  woman  tears! 
O,  if  they  were,  the  hemispheres 
Would  prove  too  small  for  boundless  lake, 
Full  up  to  overflow  of  brim, 
Our  floods  of  bitterness  would  make, 
In  which  no  Joy  might  live;  no  shining  Hope  could 
swim! 

Through  all  the  year,  great  drifts  of  snow 
Lie  in  the  canons,  cold  and  white; 
And  down  the  circling  mountains  go 
Bleak  winds  that  gather  in  their  flight 
From  ice  and  crag  of  stormy  height 
The  fragrant  balm  of  pine  and  fir, 
As  if  to  cool  and  heal  the  crime 
That  lets  no  hand  of  rescue  stir, 

But  plies  its  craft  and   fraud  through  all  the  weary 
Time! 

They  tell  me  precious  stones  are  found : 
The  emerald's  green  of  summer  lawn, 


NUMBER   FOURTEEN  1 15 

The  red  and  flame  of  rubies  round, 
Smooth  agates  streaked  with  blue  of  dawn, 
Or  mottled  like  the  coat  of  fawn, 
And  here  and  there  a  sardonyx ; 
But  never  once  the  flawless  pearl 
That  sinless  mother  loves  to  fix 
On  pure  and  artless  brow  of  pure  and  joyous  girl! 

The  land,  I  hear,  is  rich  with  ores ; 
All  silver  white  is  many  a  vein, 
And  artery  golden  yellow  pours, 
Or  red  of  copper  shows  its  stain. 
On  slant  of  slope  or  flat  of  plain 
The  various  marbles  pale  or  glow, 
Foam-white,  or  warm  with  color  waves. 
Know  not  their  names.     I  only  know 
They  mark  in  all  the  world  no  sadder  group  of  graves! 

On  crags  flit  by  the  antelope: 
On  foot-hills  graze  the  mountain  sheep. 
The  adder  coils  like  sailor's  rope, 
And  green  and  gray  the  lizards  creep. 
The  cougar  crouches  on  the  steep, 
119 


Il6  NUMBER    FOURTEEN 

Or  cat-like  through  the  rushes  crawls 
For  spring  at  loiterer  by  the  way: 
But  scarcely  more  the  brute  appals 
Than  men  that  glide  devout  but  ruin  while  they  pray! 

They  dare  to  pray! — Approach  the  Lord 
With  soft,  and  sleek,  and  unctuous  prayer, 
As  if  was  left  no  flaming  sword 
To  guard  and  cleanse  the  Eden  air; 
As  if  the  Angel  hand  was  bare 
That  keeps  the  gate  of  Paradise, 
And  swung  no  bolt  of  righteous  law: 
As  if  the  Heaven  above  the  skies 
Were   smutched   with   blackest   sin   sad    seraph    ever 
saw! 

Your  pardon,  if  I  seem  too  hard! — 

But  few  and  far  are  tears  I  shed. 

Their  earlier  rain  I  late  regard 

As  those  who  long  since  left  their  dead. 

My  girlish  grief  and  pain  have  fled, 

Or  frozen  into  solid  ice 

Above  the  wreck  of  stranded  Life, 


NUMBER    FOURTEEN  1 17 

And  hopes  long  drowned  in  seas  of  Vice, 
And  strangled  maiden  dreams  sunk  dead  in  weeds  of 
strife ! 

Perhaps  my  tongue  has  acid  grown ; 
And  temper  flames  up  hot  and  swift 
As  powder  flashed :  and  voice's  tone 
Is  rough  and  rasping  as  the  drift 
Of  glacier  through  the  chasm  rift, 
Or  avalanche  that  grinds  and  grates 
Its  thunderous  way  down  mountain  side. 
Would  you  be  calm  if  snarling  Fates 
Had  made  you  fourteenth  wife, — mere  fractional  part 
of  bride? 

I  know  the  rose  has  faded  out 
Of  cheek  and  lip.    Poor  hair  is  gray  ; 
And  graceful  form  grown  coarse  and  stout. 
The  tender  smiles  have  gone  astray, 
As  flit  the  birds  from  frost  away. 
Deep  wrinkles  seam  my  weary  face, 
Like  trough  of  waves  on  tossing  sea ; 
And  gone  is  all  the  youthful  grace. 
I  scarcely  know  myself. — Is  this  sad  ruin — me? 


Il8  NUMBER    FOURTEEN 

O,  swiftly  grew  the  grief  and  change, 
As  wide  as  from  the  tropic  blooms 
To  crags  of  snowy  Wasatch  range : 
As  dark  as  from  the  midnight  glooms: 
As  unrelenting  as  dusk  tombs 
That  hide  the  faces  we  adored. 
My  peace  was  wrecked  with  storms  of  pain, 
And  every  hope  young  heart  had  stored 
Bent  torn,  as  blossom  stalks  down  swept  by  angry  rain ! 

Sometimes,  I  try  to  be  content, 
And  weed  the  nettles  from  my  thought. 
I  go  with  head  devoutly  bent 
To  Temple  where  God's  will  is  taught, 
And  latest  Revelation  brought 
By  apostolic  telegraph: 
And  half  believe  the  crafty  creed, 
And  half  revere  the  Prophet's  staff, 
And  so  confuse  with  good  the  bad  of  treacherous  deed ! 

And  for  one  moment  almost — pray. 
But  fit  of  passing  holiness 
Is  blown  with  gust  of  scorn  away: 
And  trace  of  sudden  tenderness 


NUMBER    FOURTEEN  1 19 

Dies  out  in  sharp  and  bitter  guess 
Which  lamb  of  all  the  younger  flock 
Lies  sweet  behind  the  saintly  prayer, 
And  what  will  be  the  latest  shock, 
And  who  next  convert  "  sealed,"  and  is  she  dark  or 
fair! 

And  so  the  chill  of  unbelief 
And  hate  of  canting  hypocrite 
And  choke  and  sob  of  hidden  grief 
Alternate  with  the  fever  fit 
Of  faith  imbibed  from  Golden  writ 
Traced  by  the  very  hand  of  God, 
And  lurking  fear  of  bodiless  hand 
Armed  with  the  swift  flagellant  rod 
That  smites  with   tireless  blow  who   spurn   revealed 
command. 

O,  fool! — that  took  the  tale  as  truth! — 
I  did  not  dream  it  could  be  lie. 
It  wove  its  threads  through  all  my  youth, 
And  when  sleek  Elder  turned  his  eye 
From  thirteen  safely  hived, — and  I 


120  NUMBER    FOURTEEN 

Was  told  that  Heaven  was  made  secure 
By  solemn  "  seal  "  to  holy  saint, 
By  days  of  service  calm  and  pure, 
I    deemed    such    life    divine,    without    least    earthly 
taint. 


I  thought  it  some  religious  rite: — 
I  found  it  only  hateful  lust ! 
They  hailed  me  Bride  of  Heaven  at  night 
Enrolled  among  the  saved  and  just. 
I  fell  asleep  in  faith  and  trust, 
But  woke  mere  slave  and  concubine! — 
With  all  my  dream  of  holy  life 
And  duty  done  with  faith  divine 
Swept  out  in  drudge  of  trull,  and  shame  of  fourteenth 
wife! 


If  God  be  none  but  Mormon  God 
Then  welcome  Death  and  deepest  hell ! — 
Beholding  path  my  feet  have  trod, 
O,  you ! — unbound  by  damning  spell, 
Who  see  the  grief  in  which  I  fell, 


NUMBER    FOURTEEN  121 

Smite  out  the  Curse  with  sword  of  Law ! 
Sweep  out  the  sin!  burn  out  the  sore! 
Save  Nation's  fame  from  Mormon  maw, 
And  spread  clean  truth  and  life  from  sweetened  shore 
to  shore! 


THE  BLINDING  LEAVES 

Through  all  the  summer  days 
I  could  not  see  the  lake  for  screen  of  leaves 

That  hid  the  glow  and  haze 
Of  golden  billows  tossed  like  harvest  sheaves. 

I  knew  where  slept  its  blue 
Burnished  by  sun  and  rippled  by  the  rain, 

But  could  not  catch  its  hue 
Through  lucent  glitter  of  my  window-pane. 

For,  roofing  all  the  shore, 
Where  sang  the  music  of  the  southern  breeze, 

And  down  to  shinin-g  floor 
Was  drawn  a  curtain  of  the  barrier  trees. 

Trim  spruce  patrolled  the  beach, 
Tall  lift  of  pine,  the  hemlock's  emerald  cone, 

Gnarled  oak's  imperial  reach 
Gray  with  old  moss  or  girt  with  tendril  zone. 

122 


THE    BLINDING    LEAVES  123 

These  all  shut  in  from  me 
The  level  splendor  shyly  hiding  there, 

And  so  I  could  not  see 
If  foul  with  storm  or  sunnily  smooth  and  fair. 

But  now  the  curtain  lifts, 
And  fall  the  yellow  leaves  in  rustling  rain: 

As  wind  of  winter  drifts 
Through  branches  bare  and  writhing  in  their  pain. 

At  last  I  see,  I  see, 
The  blue  lake  sleeping  in  the  bronze-dark  arms 

Of  circling  hills,  but  free 
To  moon  that  silvers  and  to  sun  that  warms. 

I  trace  it  on  and  far 
To  where  at  end  its  peaceful  colors  die 

With  fade  of  setting  star, 
And  drowns  wave-blue  in  blue  of  hovering  sky. 

And  that  is  life,  my  dear! — 
We  do  not  see  beyond  the  barrier  screen 

Of  daily  joy  and  tear, 
Of  work  that  worries  and  of  love  serene: 


124  THE    BLINDING   LEAVES 

Of  friends  and  foes;  of  fame 
That  burns,  then  blackens  with  its  fitful  blaze ; 

Of  toil  for  bread;  of  blame 
That  trails  to  death  the  envied  steps  of  praise. 

But  falls  the  screen  at  last, 
As  snows  of  winter  crown  the  desolate  head. 

Toil,  hate  and  love  are  past ; 
The  fame  has  faded  and  the  friends  are  dead. 

So  drifts  the  screen  away 
Which  hides  blue  distance  where  clean  souls  may  be 

And  sweet,  lost  children  play. 
The  blinding  leaves  have  fallen  and — I  see! 


THE  COMING  POET 

Oh,  when  and  who, — the  Poet  new, — 
Whose  verses  troop — a  Tropic  throng — 
To  end  our  winter  bare  of  song 

And  warm  our  blue  veins  through  and  through ! 

Perhaps  will  flash  out  star  new-lit! 
I  can  not  tell  how  that  may  be: 
Old  eyes  are  dim  and  can  not  see 

What  name  on  wonder-scroll  is  writ. 

But  yet  the  world  has  need  of  him, 
For  Life  is  growing  coarse  and  cold 
With  endless  drip  of  corn  and  gold 

And  rush  of  steel  from  molten  brim: 

With  eyes  that  see  but  glare  of  greed 
And  spy  for  Power  in  glint  of  spray, 
In  green  of  lawn  seek  brown  of  hay, 

In  poppy  blaze  its  opiate  seed. 
125 


126  THE    COMING   POET 

Yet  there  be  those  who  dare  to  sing, 

Like  you  and  I, — dear  dreamer  friends, — • 
But  we? — we  have  no  flight  that  blends 

With  sweep  of  strong  world-eagle's  wing. 

Be  sure  we  know  our  vassal  place, 
Nor  lift  vain  hopes  to  Poet's  crown; 
For  one  such  Royalty  would  drown 

A  Red  Sea  host  of  rhyming  race. 

We  play  but  casual  interludes. — 
Yet  not  misled  by  popular  praise 
That  welcomes  drawl  of  Proverb  lays, 

Or  drone  of  Rydal  platitudes. 

Not  that  at  least.  For  such  as  these 
Who  snatch  at  laurel  quite  unwon 
Our  lips  to  rebel  challenge  run, 

And  never  bend  our  obstinate  knees. 

True  Poet,  singing,  something  sings. — 
Who  give  for  gems  poor  sham  of  beads, 
Put  froth  of  words  for  soul  of  deeds 

Forge  nothing  though  beat  anvil  rings, 


THE   COMING   POET  127 

These  reach  no  gate  of  brain  or  heart, 
Cage  notes  that  hint  no  trace  of  tune, 
Hang  tinsel  flags  on  horns  of  moon, 

And  desecrate  the  shrines  of  Art. 

There  is  no  Poetry  in  words! — 

Such  are  but  wire  the  lightning  rides, 
Highway  magnetic  whereon  glides 

Electric  flock  of  carrier  birds. 

They  are  but  clouds  of  evening  sky 
That  lie  on  hill-tops  gray  and  dun 
Till  warm  in  west  the  setting  Sun 

Flings  dash  of  color  wide  and  high. 

They  are  but  separate  palette  stains 
That  brush  of  artist  blends  with  care, 
Till  on  his  canvas  white  and  bare 

Some  sweet  Madonna,  sinless,  reigns. 

The  poet-power  lies  in  the  thought, 
That  burns  beneath  the  color  lines 
And  up  through  all  the  blooming  shines 

And  glorifies  the  lesson  taught. 


128  THE    COMING   POET 

That  Thought  all  One,  and  lucent  clear; 
Not  draggled  deep  in  sweet  of  phrase, 
But  plain  in  all  its  coil  of  ways, 

And  bounded  clean  as  sphere  or  tear. 

If  Guido  paints  for  altar-side 

The  Cross, — the  soldiers, — faces  pale, — 
Yet  sum  of  all  the  thronged  detail 

Is  Christ  alone, — Him  crucified! 

If  through  June  air  wing-hum  is  heard 
And  Oriole  flashes  flame  or  gold, 
Or  lilies  variant  hues  unfold, 

Yet  always  lily,  always  bird! 

If  locks  of  gold  young  longings  stir, 
Blue  eyes,  blush  cheek,  ear's  dainty  tip, 
Pure  snow  of  brow,  red  pout  of  lip, 

Yet  thrall  of  all  is  One, — is  Her. 

If  tragic  drama  gathers  hate 

And  love  and  fear,  whole  passion  brood, 
Yet  mob  of  mimic  multitude 

In  one  black  crash  must  culminate. 


THE    COMING    POET  129 

And  so  pure  song  of  coming  day 

Will  round  some  pivot-thought  revolve, 
And  dare  perhaps  to  clear  or  solve 

Our  tangled  part  in  Mystery  play. 

But  he  who  comes, — our  perfect  bard, — 
To  plant  such  thought  in  barren  Time 
And  wed  our  work  to  grace  of  rhyme 

Will  find  his  Kingdom  frozen  hard. 

From  few,  a  welcome  lean  and  slim, 
From  masses,  beat  of  stinging  rain, 
From  Press,  the  gift  of  smutch  and  stain ; 

And  this  the  cordial  spiced  for  him. 

That  mind  poetic  seldom  thinks ; 

Hath  nought  of  reason ;  only  rhythm  ; 

Can  frame  no  solemn  syllogism; 
Can  forge  no  chain  of  logic  links. 

A  pity? — Yes. — But  in  this  day 

Earth  needs  the  solid  brawn  that  swings 
Great  ax  or  sledge, — hard-handed  Kings 

That  cut  through  forest  sun-lit  way. 


130  THE    COMING   POET 

Yet  may  not  Toiler  sing  along 
His  daily  task  of  hand  and  brain, 
And  catch  for  lilt  of  summer  strain 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  woodland  song? 

May  not  the  great  bell  swung  in  spire 
With  bang  and  clang  mix  melody, 
Some  tender  tone  of  moaning  sea, 

And  vibrate  prayer  as  well  as  fire? 

If  Capitol  sits  mutely  grand 

And  massive  wall  for  Caesar  waits, 
May  not  white  statues  guard  its  gates 

And  lift  the  grace  of  warning  hand? 

But,  Sirs, — Song  strikes  far  heavier  blow! — 
Wields  ax  on  line  with  Pioneer, 
Swings  blow  of  sledge  in  curve  of  cheer, 

And  goes  where  brawn  dares  not  to  go. 

What  if  it  frames  some  bugle  strain 

Whose  swelling  war-note  blasts  a  throne ; 
Or  sounds  refrain  from  northern  zone 

Whose  march  of  music  breaks  a  chain ! 


THE   COMING   POET  13* 

What  if  it  builds  some  stately  hymn 
That  leads  the  Cross  around  the  world; 
Or  ties  a  tone  to  flag  unfurled 

That  sweeps  the  seas  from  rim  to  rim! 

What  if  wrecked  Forum  glows  at  line 

Whose  ring  awakes  numb  heart  of  Rome ; 
Or  strain  flung  on  from  dome  to  dome 

Guards  safe  with  watch-song  roll  of  Rhine ! 

What  if  some  blind  bard  lifts  dusk  veil 

Which  hides  the  arch  of  Great  White  Throne ; 
Or  harp  of  Hebrew  twines  earth-moan 

WTith  clang  of  Gabriel's  golden  mail! 

What  if  all  Law  that  rules  our  day 
Was  rocked  in  cradle-couch  of  Verse; 
And  through  unfold  of  primal  curse 

Some  Greek  song  lamps  our  hesitant  way! 

Ah! — Grace  may  be  with  Power  blent, 
Curled  pearl  of  steam  shut  engine  in. 
Come,  perfect  Poem,  next  of  kin 

To  clean  and  solid  argument. 


132  THE    COMING    POET 

A  difference? — Yes.     But  this  alone: 
One  works  its  truth  out  gravely  slow, 
Adds  link  to  link  with  ache  of  blow, 

Or  lifts  to  column  groan  of  stone. 

The  other  sees  same  truth  in  flash 
And  photographs  the  truth  it  sees, 
Or  sends  swift  search-light  down  the  breeze 

Unmasking  rocks  where  breakers  dash. 

It  hints  a  thought  it  does  not  tell, 
Half  hides  it  in  wise  Virgin's  lamp, 
Or  Bethlehem  star  of  shepherd's  camp, 

Or  mystic  fold  of  parable. 

Nor  need  such  robing  lessen  Force. — 
Does  color-flash  mar  thunder  shock, 
Will  vein  of  silver  soften  rock, 

Or  river's  fringe  delay  its  course? 

The  planet  orbs  swing  arcs  of  power: 
May  not  their  disks  with  splendor  shine? 
Round  throne  of  Queen  curves  army's  line : 

May  not  she  wear  some  grace  of  flower? 


THE    COMING    POET  133 

Does  mast  of  ship  put  weakness  on 
When  wave  and  wind  go  crashing  by. 
Because  it  tossed  green  plume  to  sky 

As  mountain  pine  of  Oregon  ? 

If  with  cropped  hair  and  surly  phlegm 
The  Roundhead  wields  a  victor  spear, 
May  not  his  match  be  Cavalier 

With  Margaret's  glove  on  polished  helm? 

W^hat  if  the  Age  be  grimed  with  dirt 
Of  mine  and  mill ;  smut-dark  with  toil, 
And  delving  deep  for  sullen  spoil 

By  bonds  of  rock  resistant  girt! 

Must  Steel  and  Iron  rule  the  lands? — 
The  one  has  run  to  sword  and  gun : 
The  other  pierced  the  martyred  Son, 

And  nailed  the  blessed  and  bleeding  hands. 

Shall  sordid  aims  usurp  the  throne, 

Plow  every  field  where  blossoms  start, 
With  brutal  shears  clip  locks  of  Art, 

And  set  for  Genius  burial  stone? 


134  THE   COMING   POET 

Must  Faith  and  Love  and  Truth  disarm? 

The  Useful  flout  the  Beautiful; 

Slave-men  at  oar  of  galley  pull, 
Nor  taste  the  freedom  sailed  in  storm? 

And  so  for  Poet  place  and  praise ! 

Fair  end  of  pestilent  scoff  and  sneer: 
His  shining  pathway  swept  and  clear 

For  clang  of  chariot  down  the  days! 

We  need  his  song  to  cleanse  the  air; 
Some  heart-uplift  of  messenger, 
Some  strain  inspired  may  still  or  stir 

The  torture  throb  or  numb  of  Care. 

Whose  verse  may  color  plodding  scene 
Of  dust  and  dig  and  mortar-muds, 
As  on  the  brown  of  winter  buds 

March  dares  a  touch  of  coming  green. 

His  song  no  mist  of  flocculent  strain 
To  hide  the  clear-cut  shine  of  stars : 
No  tangled  maze  of  music  bars 

That  blend  with  pleasure  pangs  of  pain: 


THE   COMING   POET  135 

No  luscious  drift  of  words  unblest 

That  dance  in  couplets  steaming  warm, 
Lift  veil  from  every  shrinking  charm, 

And  leer  at  lace  of  shuddering  breast : 

No  seer-song  transcendental  swirl 
Of  mystic  words  in  vortex  flung, 
With  arch  of  solemn  fog  o'erhung, 

That  round  some  theme  eccentric  whirl. 

No,  none  of  these.    God  grant  it ! — none ! 

For  he  who  comes  must  win  the  crown 

By  voice  concurrent  handed  down 
From  Shakespeare  on  to  Tennyson. 

Must  come,  no  sham  of  Laureate  gold, 
No  glass  that  apes  clean  diamond  flare, 
But  purest  light  from  mountain  lair 

Where  God  in  silence  left  the  mold. 

Must  come  throat-full  of  Nature-hymns, 
Wind  voices,  hum  of  bees,  bird  trills, 
The  ripple  talk  of  leaves  and  rills, 

Storm-sob  in  thrash  of  forest  limbs: 


136  THE   COMING   POET 

With  eyes  to  fathom  inmost  soul, 
That  drill  to  sands  where  tears  are  born 
And  gush  or  drip;  that  soar  to  morn 

Where  rising  hopes  their  reds  unroll. 

Must  gather  all  of  fragrance  up, 
The  sweet  that  down  rose-coral  slips, 
The  nectrous  cling  of  loving  lips, 

And  give  it  us  in  golden  cup. 

With  pity  for  the  hunger  stress 
That  warps  astray,  but  bolt  of  blow 
For  Guilt  in  gauds:  becoming  so 

Mixed  weave  of  wrath  and  tenderness. 

Must  win  all  Knowledge  stored  away 
In  classic  grove,  in  scholar's  lamp, 
In  dust  of  Tribes'  migrating  tramp, 

In  widest  range  of  Cosmic  sway. 

Must  common  hope  of  gain  refuse 

And  spare  the  wealth  base-born  of  strife, 
And  tie  the  whole  of  soul  and  life 

To  girdle-gold  of  resolute  Muse. 


THE    COMING    POET  137 

Must  have  Beliefs,  oak-rooted,  deep, 
Whose  cling  no  tempest  rage  can  tear ; 
And  Courage  framed  to  find  and  dare 

Curved  cobra  crest,  slim  tiger  leap. 

Must  come  as  morn  comes,  bringing  light, 
Must  come  as  night  comes,  bringing  rest, 
As  still  as  bird  droops  down  to  nest, 

As  strong  as  storm  swoops  down  from  height. 

Must  come  as  wave  of  lifted  main 

Whose  flood  sweeps  out  all  human  bars 
With  Sun  for  glow-mate,  torch  of  stars, 

All  love  in  heart,  all  life  in  brain! 

Perhaps  will  grow  from  Avon  urns, 
Or  where  great  arch  of  Abbey  broods, 
From  moan  of  Missolonghi  woods, 

Or  heather-cradled  rest  of  Burns: 

From  slope  where  blossoms  Goethe's  grave, 
Or  Roman  maid  for  Tasso  weeps, 
From  cypress  shade  where  Browning  sleeps, 

Or  songless  shore  of  western  wave. 


138  THE    COMING   POET 

But  come  he  will :  some  day ;  somewhere ! 
In  distant  tremor  far  I  feel 
The  ring  and  rush  of -flying  wheel; — 

Almost  his  footstep  on  the  stair. 

Will  rise  above  the  lyric  rows 

Whose  songs  are  many,  triumphs  few, 
As  over  beds  of  pansy  blue 

Some  royal  dahlia  grows  and  glows. 

With  fount  of  love  and  hope  unsealed, 

Will  pour  its  flood  from  wealth  of  spring, 
Set  wheel  adrip,  make  hammer  sing, 

And  follow  furrow  round  the  field. 

All  secrets  hid  in  cells  of  heart, 

Each  drop  of  blood  in  maid  or  man, 
Each  jar  of  nerves  where  tears  began, 

Will  be  of  him  some  natural  part. 

Will  wind  their  way  through  web  of  song 
In  sinuous  threads  from  click  of  reel, 
Till  glories  dance  or  sorrows  kneel 

The  world  and  ways  of  Life  along. 


THE    COMING    POET  139 

And  he  will  climb  to  vacant  throne, 
And  lift  to  brow  the  waiting  crown, 
While  slowly  step  old  barons  down 

Whose  songs  and  hopes  are  all  gray-grown. 

Step  down  the  old,  step  down  the  young: 
The  first  with  fall  of  hesitant  tread 
And  backward  bend  of  drooping  head 

At  fade  of  earliest  laurel  flung. 

The  last  with  look  of  half-disdain, 
And  rebel  flush  of  gathering  doubt, 
Till  rings  the  Master's  clarion  out, 

And  seals  with  song  his  right  to  reign. 

Whoe'er  he  be, — God-builded, — strong, — 
The  minstrel  Prince  of  coming  days, 
For  him  immortal  crown  of  bays, 

For  him  the  realm  of  future  Song! 


TWILIGHT 

1849-1899 

The  sun  droops  down  behind  the  hill, 
And  comes  the  Twilight  dim  and  still, 
Cooling  hot  red  of  cloud  and  sky, 
And  toning  Day's  long  song  and  cry 
Of  Joy  and  Grief  to  murmurs  low 
That  through  the  gathering  Silence  go, — 
And  now  comes  sleep. 

The  wind  has  fallen ;  lies  along 
Green  meadow  slopes  where   grasses   throng, 
And  only  dreams  forgotten  storms. 
Back  to  oak-hollow  flit  the  swarms 
Of  laden  bees,  and  Night  unbars 
Her  steel-blue  cage;  lets  out  the  stars 
To  watch  our  sleep. 
140 


TWILIGHT 

The  violets  curl  in  drowsy  beds, 
The   roses   slant   their   slumberous   heads; 
Birds  flit  to  rest  of  darkening  dells, 
And  vines  of  lattice  shut  their  bells. 
But  while  all  Nature  silent  grows 
The  tireless  River  seaward  flows, 
Not  yet  asleep. 

And  so  thro'  Twilight — come  at  last — 
Our  lives  slip  onward,  river-fast, 
To  sea  or  sands  of  hovering  Night. 
If  step  is  slow  or  blurred  the  sight 
Vet  all  the  various  work  is  done, 
And  on  the  peaceful  hours  may  run 
To  rest  and  sleep. 

We  sit  and  muse  with  folded  hands 
While  Memory  weaves  in  myriad  strands 
The  toil  of  living,  rest  of  dead : 
Forgotten  walls  of  crumbling  red, 
Grim  chapel  bare  as  stranded  shell 
And  every  morn  stern  clang  of  bell 
That  ended  sleep. 


142  TWILIGHT 

The  sand-walks  smooth  with  glide  of  feet ; 
Gaunt  rail  of  fence  on  verge  of  street ; 
Moss-damp  of  spout  at  which  we  knelt 
With  lips  athirst;  green  girdling  belt 
Of  solemn  elms;  thin  lift  of  spire 
Where  benches  ache  and  lessons  tire, 
But  never  sleep. 

All  gone ! — Ah,  well, — we  too  must  go, 
For  somewhere  ends  the  River's  flow! 
Meanwhile  the  blessed  Twilight  folds 
Its  robes  about  us, — grays  and  golds 
Of  peaceful  sunsets, — hush  of  air, 
Calm  end  of  sorrow,  toil  and  care, — 
Approach  of  sleep. 

The  children  climb  up  patient  knee, 
And  children's  children  too,  may-be. 
They  mix  brown  curls  with  w7hite  of  hair 
And  seek  with  tease  and  innocent  dare 
To  make  us  playmates ;  heed  no  sigh 
Of  sad   refusal:  wonder  why 
So  much  we  sleep. 


TWILIGHT  143 

At  least  the  Twilight  brings  repose 
And  love  of  friends.    We  have  no  foes. 
All  bud  or  branch  of  hate  is  dead: 
No  lance  of  rivalry  is  sped : 
No  rush  or  crush  of  life  remains: 
No  throb  of  heart,  no  ache  of  brains, 
But  only  sleep. 

All  laid  away  or  folded  down: 
Sword-buckled  belt,  judicial  gown, 
White  lawn  of  knot  at  sermon  throats, 
Electric  tape,  Professor's  notes, 
Case-spotted  brief  of  wrangling  Bar, 
Tired  Poet's  song  of  girl  or  star, — 
Left  only — sleep! 

Falls  surgeon's  knife  from  tremulous  hand; 
No  night-bell  jangles  scared  demand; 
The  lord  of  travel  leaves  his  rail; 
Lone  decks  of  yacht  furl  idle  sail ; 
And  under  growing  burdens  bent 
Steps  down  some  wearied  President, 
In  hope  of  sleep. 


H4  TWILIGHT 

And  so  we  welcome  Twilight  rest. 
The  work  all  done ;  the  lonesome  crest 
Of  life's  hill  reached ;  the  bleeding  griefs 
Scarred  over;  golden  child-beliefs 
Of  Harp  or  Trumpet  turned  to  Faith, 
Simple  but  firm,  in  Him  who  saith 
He  giveth  sleep. 

And  now  Song  ends.     Perhaps  the  last: 
But  through  the  Twilight,  darkening  fast, 
The  fresh  boy-brotherhood  will  shine 
Among  the  gathering  lights  Divine, 
Till  voice  falls  faint  and  lips  grow  pale, 
And  fade  away  dim  towers  of  Yale 
In  Death's  long  sleep. 


NOTES 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY  (Page  i) 

This  poem  was  first  printed  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
in  September,  1867.  It  will  be  found  in  Vol.  XX,  p.  369. 
It  was  preceded  by  an  extract  from  the  New  York  Tribune, 
of  which  this  is  a  copy. 

"  The  women  of  Columbus,  Miss.,  animated  by  nobler 
sentiments  than  are  many  of  their  sisters,  have  shown 
themselves  impartial  in  their  offerings  made  to  the  memory 
of  the  dead.  They  strewed  flowers  alike  on  the  graves  of 
the  Confederate  and  National  soldiers." 

The  poem  met  with  much  hostility.  The  feelings  engen 
dered  by  the  war  were  yet  predominant,  and  the  lesson  of 
brotherhood  had  not  been  learned. 

Rossiter  Johnson,  in  his  "  Famous  Single  and  Fugitive 
Poems,"  copies  in  a  note  an  answer  by  James  M.  Dalzell, 
of  the  n6th  Ohio  Volunteers,  which  is  bitter  and  unfor 
giving,  and  takes  issue  with  the  sentiment  of  charity,  and 
yet  has  a  very  vigorous  swing  to  its  verses.  Time,  how 
ever,  has  mellowed  even  the  veterans. 

TAGHKANIC  (Page  4) 

These  verses  appear  in  "  Scenery  of  Ithaca,"  published 
in  1866.  The  waterfall  is  215  feet  high,  and  breaks  into 
fine  spray.  The  stream  empties  into  Cayuga  Lake.  The 

145 


146  NOTES 

proper  spelling  of  the  name  was  said  by  Hon.  Wm.  H. 
Bogart,  who  was  distinguished  both  as  a  journalist  and 
for  his  knowledge  of  Indian  antiquities,  to  be  Taghkanic, 
and  to  mean  "  The  Great  Fall  in  the  Woods." 

SMOKING  SONG  (Page  6) 

The  Smoking  Song  was  a  college-boy  performance 
written  in  1848,  and  first  printed  in  1849,  in  Vol.  XIV  of 
the  Yale  Literary  Magazine.  It  has  sometimes  been  con 
fused  with  a  poem  which  floated  on  the  surface  of  the 
Press  entitled  "  My  Last  Cigar."  I  did  not  write  that,  and 
though  the  subjects  are  the  same,  the  two  bear  no  resem 
blance  to  each  other. 

NATHAN  HALE  (Page  13) 

This  poem  was  first  written  and  read  at  a  centennial 
celebration  of  the  Linonian  Society  of  Yale  College,  in 
1853.  It  formed  an  episode  in  a  much  longer  poem,  and 
was  suggested  by  the  fact  that  in  the  Linonian  library 
were  found  records  in  the  handwriting  of  Hale,  and  books 
which  were  his  gift.  The  orator  of  the  day  was  Hon. 
Wm.  M.  Evarts,  and  among  the  officers  were  Hon.  Andrew 
D.  White,  late  ambassador  to  Germany,  and  ex-President 
Timothy  Dwight,  two  of  whom  are  yet  living. 

COMING  BOYS  (Page  24) 

Written  in  1879,  and  formed  part  of  a  poem  entitled 
"  Songs  of  the  Guns,"  read  at  a  re-union  of  the  Army  of 
the  Potomac,  held  in  Albany,  in  June  of  that  year.  I  knew 
at  the  time  that  T.  Buchanan  Read  had  written  a  poem 


NOTES  147 

entitled  "  Sheridan's  Ride,"  but  I  had  not  seen  it,  and 
ventured  to  treat  the  theme  in  my  own  way.  The  credit 
of  first  seeing  the  poetic  possibilities  of  the  theme  must 
belong  to  him,  though  the  two  poems  are  altogether 
different. 

ALICE  (Page  28) 

Alice,  second  daughter  of  Queen  Victoria,  married  in 
1862  to  Prince  Louis  of  Hesse.  Her  death  occasioned 
many  American  eulogies. 

INAUGURAL  ODE  (Page  30) 

Sung  at  the  inauguration  of  President  Porter,  and  the 
retirement  of  President  Woolsey,  at  Yale. 

THE  CHIMES  (Page  44) 

Written  to  the  air  which  became  familiar  during  the 
Civil  War,  of  "  Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp,  the  Boys  are 
Marching."  It  was  sung  in  acknowledgment  of  the  chime 
of  bells  given  to  Cornell  University  by  Miss  Jennie 
McGraw. 

GENERAL  ORDERS  (Page  74) 

General  Sheridan,  as  commander  of  the  Fifth  Military 
District,  having  headquarters  at  New  Orleans,  exercised 
his  authority  to  aid  reconstruction  on  the  lines  dictated 
by  the  laws  of  Congress.  President  Andrew  Johnson  was 
rapidly  changing  his  position,  and  on  the  i/th  of  August. 
1867,  removed  Sheridan  from  his  command,  and  assigned 
him  to  the  Department  of  the  Missouri.  This  was  done 


148  NOTES 

in  the  face  of  a  protest  from  General  Grant,  and  it  was 
the  common  belief  that  Johnson  was  afraid  of  Sheridan's 
popularity. 

ENGINE  NO.  658  (Page  83) 

It  will  be  recalled  that  after  the  shooting  of  President 
Garfield  he  lingered  long  between  life  and  death.  It  was 
deemed  advisable  to  remove  him  from  Washington  to  the 
seashore,  and  a  special  train  was  prepared  and  given  a 
right  of  way  over  the  lines.  Very  full  accounts  were  given 
of  the  journey,  including  the  number  of  the  engine  and 
the  name  of  the  conductor. 

TWILIGHT  (Page  140) 

Read  at  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  graduation  of 
the  Class  of  1849  from  Yale  College. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


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